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WAR DAYS IN BRITTANY 

By ELSIE DEMING JARVES 



Private Edition 

This is No. 

of a limited edition printed 

for private circulation. 

The Author. 




Mrs. Deming Jarves 
Officier de l'Academie 



t> rv I ,; i 

MEDAL OF THE RECONNAISSANCE 
FRANCAISE 

By decree of the President of the Republic, the 
silver medal of the Reconnaissance Francaise was 
conferred on Mrs. Elsie Deming Jarves for the devo- 
tion she showed since the beginning of the war to our 
wounded. 

The Citation reads as follows: 

"Mrs. Deming Jarves, since the beginning of the 
war, showed the most generous solicitude for our 
wounded soldiers in Brittany, has never spared her- 
self and has shown the greatest devotion." 

As announced elsewhere, Mr. Deming Jarves was 
made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor for the same 



cause. 



The above article is reprinted from "Le Nouvelliste de 

Bretagne," a French daily paper published in Rennes, 

the capital of Brittany. 



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R DAYS IN 
BRITTANY 



BY 

ELSIE DEMING JARVES 



Printed by 

Saturday Night Press, Inc. 

Detroit, Michigan 

1920 



•33 



Copyright, 1920, by 
Deming Jarves 



ictA57rr?s 



JUL 26 1920 



rv>t 



TO THOSE GENEROUS 

AMERICANS 

FROM WHOM CAME THE 

FINANCIAL AID AND MORAL ENCOURAGEMENT 

NECESSARY TO HELP US THROUGH 

THESE DAYS, 

IS DEDICATED THIS 

LITTLE COLLECTION OF PERSONAL 

EXPERIENCES DURING THE 

GREAT WAR 



Jttfititat lie 3Frattre 

Madame: 

Vous avez vegu dans notre pays ces annees de 
terrible guerre; vous vous dtes interress£e a tout ce 
que nous avons v6cu de miseres, a tout ce qu'on souff ert 
nos enfants. Vous m'avez demande combien des 
miens €taient mort; J'avais quatre petits neveux, 
trois sont tombes au Champ d'Honneur; un reste qui 
etait aviateur en Russie et qui a obtenu trois citations 
a l'ordre de l'armee, cela, c'est le cas habituel des 
families Bourgoises; je ne me plaine pas, ne m'eu 
vaute: Aucun des enfants, n'£tait mari6, aucun n'a 
laisse* d'enfants; mais les morts sont nombreux ailleur 
et leurs veuves et leurs petits enfants vivent. II 
faut qu'ils vivent; ne serait ce que pour opposer en- 
core leurs poitrines aux Barbares quand ils reviendront 
sur nous pour engager la Supreme bataille. Deux 
millions de Francais sont mort sauver la liberty du 
monde. Ils ont donne" aux autres le temps de venir, 
mais le temps comme, ils l'ont pay£! 

Si l'Amenque veut aider leurs enfants a s'instruire, 
et a se former aux bonnes etudes nous l'accepterons; 
ceux qui sont mort sont mort pour Elle comme ils sont 
mort pour la France. Veuillex agreer Madame l'hom- 
mage de mes sentiments respectueux. 

Frederic Masson. 
December 12, 1918, 



CONTENTS , 

Page 

In Brittany (1914) 3 

The Train of the Wounded (1914) 7 

Dinard Day by Day (1914) 15 

Dinard Actualities (1914-1915) 23 

To a Dying Boy (1915) 33 

The Substitute Mother (1915) 37 

Sons of France (1915) 45 

Hail to the Dead (1916) 61 

A Red Cross Hospital (1916) 71 

The Castle of Combourg (1916) 75 

A Belgian Romance (1917) 83 

The Vow (1917) 95 

What Frenchwomen Are Doing in War Time (1917) ... 99 

Prisoners and Ambulances (1918) 109 

To a Poilu (1918) 123 

Our War Work (1918) 127 

Americans in Brittany (1918) 135 

Victorious Bells of France (1918) 145 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



French war posters (in colors) Front fiysheet < 

Mrs. Deming Jarves Frontispiece^ 



FACING 
PAGB 



Arrival of the wounded — Group of snapshots 7* 

Funeral oraison — In the cemetery 15 v 

Arriving at the hospitals 26 ' 

Wounded at the Grand Casino hospital 26 

French war poster (in colors) 45 v 

Procession on the way to the cemetery 63 

French cemeteries decorated on the "Jour des Morts" ... 63 

Chateau of the Comte and Comtesse de Durfort at Combourg 75 s ' 

Interior of Castle of Combourg — The Chatelaine and a few 

of the wounded 76 

Group in front of the Castle of Combourg 76' 

"Yolande de M— " 83^ 

Facsimiles of proclamations placarded all over the walls of 

Namur 84 

French war poster (in colors) 99 v 

French war poster (in colors) 103 

French wounded huddled in shed in German prison . . .116 

Cruelty to French officer in German prison 116 

Deming Jarves (1918) . . . 127 * 

Garden of Val Fleuri, Dinard 132 ' 

French war poster (in colors) 145 

French war poster (in colors) 147 ' 

French war poster (in colors) Back fiysheet 



IN BRITTANY 



IN BRITTANY 



Sing me a song of the west country 
Where priest and peasant still abide; 

Where giant cliffs come down to the sea 
To lave their feet in the long green tide; 

Atlantic rollers, huge and free, 

Beat high on the coast of Brittany! 

II 

Sing of the pearly sky hung low, 
Of verdant forests girding the land! 

Where heather and gorse on the hillsides glow, 
The long gray lines of the Menhir stand, 

Guarding their secret constantly 

Through age-long silence, in Brittany. 

Ill 

The high-flung roofs in lichen decked, 
Yellow and green and golden-brown, 

With tiny flowers and weeds o'er-flecked, 
Shelter the cottages of the town ; 

While up from the chimneys, silently, 

Floats the thin, blue smoke of Brittany. 

IV 

A gleam of brass through the open door, 

Of walled-in bed of carven oak, 
Of polished flags upon the floor, 

' Neath heavy rafters black with smoke ; 
The song of the wheel as, cannily, 
The wife spins her flax in Brittany. 

[3] 



War Days in Brittany 

V 

The sabots clatter down the street, 

The church bell sounds across the bay, 

The brown sails of the fishing fleet 
Grow black against the dying day; 

While sun and peace sink glowingly 

Upon the land of Brittany. 

VI 

Mystic and weird is the ancient tale 

Of Arthur and Merlin, and knights of oldl 

Of Celtic ardor, and holy Grail, 

Of Church, and Priest, and Castlehold! 

Of Prince and Peasant ardently 

Guarding the faith in Brittany. 

VII 

Land of the Legends! Country of Dreams — 
Of Saints, and Pardons, and Ancient Faith! 

Deep-hidden beside your forest streams 
Still live the sprites and ghostly wraith! 

Land of Crosses, where, fervently, 

The peasants still pray in Brittany! 

VIII 

Brave are your sons as they sail the seas 
'Mid storm and tempest and winter gale! 

Brave the wife as she waits on the leas 
For the distant gleam of homing sail! 

Brave and patient and earnestly 

The peasants still pray in Brittany! 

— Elsie Deming Jarves. 



THE TRAIN OF THE WOUNDED 




Top — Deming Jarves Motor Car at the Station 
Center — First Wounded Arriving at Dinard. 
Bottom — Arriving at the Hospitals. 



THE TRAIN OF THE WOUNDED 



The train draws up gently, soldiers appear at the doors, 
silent and patiently waiting, some with foreheads swathed 
in reddening bandages, others with their arms in slings, 
again others leaning on crutches. One could not judge of 
the number, as more wounded were lying on the seats. 
One saw only black and white and yellow faces peering 
anxiously forth, and one understood that these soldiers 
had no words to express their sufferings, they only wait 
"for help." 

A young doctor, just commencing his life of self-sacri- 
fice, his eyes heavy with fever, his shoulders drooping 
with fatigue, seeks the military doctor in charge at the 
station and hands him a list giving him some information, 
brief and military, on the wounded hundreds behind him. 
Some are so injured they must have instant help. Here 
are men who may travel further; seeking from station to 
station the promised assistance. 

The more desperately wounded are removed on 
stretchers; the nuns bring cooling water to wash their 
fevered hands and faces; the nurses bring them food and 
hot coffee; kind hands replace their slings, awry; boys and 
girls bring them newspapers, cigarettes and candies. All 
wish to express their admiration and devotion to these 
humble defenders of France. 

All along the vast platforms are rows of stretchers, each 
laden with its suffering humanity. One counts the men 

[7] 



8 War Days in Brittany 

by the upturned boot soles. Alas! those wounded in the 
legs hang brokenly down. Here a wretched man with 
broken shoulder wanders toward the operating room, in- 
stalled in every railway station. There a feeble comrade 
leans on the shoulders of a nurse as he struggles toward 
the doctors awaiting him. 

The more seriously wounded must remain on the spot, 
and the medical director inspects him, as taking his num- 
ber he encourages him with a few words: "Now, my brave 
one, you will not travel further; a look, a look at your 
wound, my friend, and then to a comfortable hospital." 
The wounded soldier touches his cap, lifts his covering 
and shows a dressing spotted with yellow and brown; but 
has the strength to say to the bearers, "Carefully, gently, 
my friends; I suffer much!" and he looks with misgiving 
on the motor car, for they are moving him again. Poor 
fellow, he has suffered so much. 

They lift him tenderly and he disappears beneath the 
Red Cross ambulance, there to find a nurse who whispers 
"My little soldier, another moment of patience and thou 
wilt find thyself amidst cool sheets, far from noise and 
confusion. Thou shalt rest in peace, and thou shalt be 
well." 

In the midst of this "empressement," this joy of helping, 
the German prisoners, wounded and far from home, are 
not forgotten. At the door of one of the wagons a little 
brown chap is leaning, silent, but with shining eyes. The 
odors of good, refreshing coffee and hot bread are wafted 
to him ; but he does not make a sign. But how hungry he 



The Train of the Wounded 9 

is! And those good comrades behind him who for so 
many days faced death and famine in the trenches — how 
they hunger! He glances behind him. Here a man lies on 
his back, his eyes closed. Another is gasping, with his 
hands clenched. Others are crouching in obscurity. How 
hungry they are! How the thirst burns. But one must 
not ask mercy of one's conquerors. 

Suddenly a young doctor, with a nun at his side, ap- 
pears at the window. Coffee, bread and meat are offered; 
it is the little brown wounded one kneeling at the window 
who brings to his fellows the hospitality of France. 

The officers are crowded together, heads swathed in 
blood-stained bandages, legs and arms encircled in spotted 
bands, but their voices are lowered as they thank the nuns, 
and they squeeze themselves together to allow a freer 
space to the more injured companion. The newspaper 
brought to them tells them of the battles in which they 
have fought, and in the list of those fallen on the field of 
honor appears the name of many a cherished friend. 

Oh, the brave, humble little Piou-Piou! The little in- 
fantrymen who so bravely and so enthusiastically have 
fought for their native soil; wounded in arm and leg, in 
head and thigh, in foot and hand; uncomplaining, patient 
and grateful, so tired and so injured, but as ready to re- 
turn to their trenches, bearing all things, suffering, seeking 
a nameless grave, that their beloved France may remain 
free and intact. These are unknown, courageous French- 
men, who on the present-day battlefields appeal to us to 
help, comfort and succor in this their day of tribulation. 



10 War Days in Brittany 

At Rennes and the larger towns there are comforts and 
medical equipments impossible for our little Dinard and 
its hastily-installed hospitals; all the hotels and casinos 
have been "requisitiones" and we are doing our best to 
make things comfortable for those poor chaps; but we 
lack, alas, so much! There are no ambulances, and so all 
sorts of conveyances are called into use, from elegant 
limousines and small motor cars, down through the list of 
private carriages and cabs, to express carts. 

It is a painful sight to see these latter, minus springs or 
even mattresses (which are all in use in hospitals), bump- 
ing the poor wounded over car-tracks and crossings to 
their destination. 

At the grand casino one's heart is torn by the sight of 
such suffering supported so uncomplainingly. A large 
hall is hastily arranged with cane-bottomed chairs, in 
front of each a tin basin, hot water in cans (heated on a 
gas stove) is poured into these primitive receptacles, and 
ladies of the Croix Rouge kneel in front of these rough 
wounded men. It is hard work, sometimes, to separate 
the heavy army boots from the wounded feet. Some of 
these men have not had their boots off in two months; 
constantly marching to and fro over those fields and 
through the mud, ready at any moment to spring to arms 
to defend us and our homes. It is the least we can do, to 
help their pain now. 

The blood has soaked through the worn-out socks, and 
the whole mass is impregnated with dirt, blood, etc.; 
but how grateful they are, these poilus, to have their 



The Train of the Wounded 11 

wounds dressed, their torn, dirty uniforms removed, and 
to find themselves in comfortable beds, a soothing drink 
of beef tea, with a dash of brandy held to their lips, and a 
soft pillow behind their weary heads. One boy said to 
me, as we finally got him in bed: "Madam, one goes 
gladly to fight for la France, but now, I must rest awhile. 
With such kind ladies to aid me, I know I shall soon gain 
strength enough to return to show those Boches." What 
la Jeunesse Francaise is willing to bear for France! 

October, 19U. 



DINARD DAY BY DAY 




l; 



DINARD DAY BY DAY 



Up the village street comes the funeral. Gusts of wind, 
bearing fog and rain on their wings, roar up the roadway, 
tossing the branches against the low sky, tearing the last 
Autumn leaves from the trees, whirling the skirts of the 
women and the white garments of the priest, as the 
mournful little band struggles towards the church. 

The bell is tolling in long, heavy notes; the funeral cars, 
alas! three in number, move slowly along; the "tricolor," 
wet and draggled, whipping above the heads of the little 
troopers who have lain down their lives that it may float 
free and unsubdued over France. 

What a sad little procession it is! First, a chorister 
bearing a cross; then two others chanting, with the priest, 
the dirge for the dead. 

On either side of the three hearses limp a few soldiers, 
their red trousers the only spot of color in the black and 
gray landscape. 

A group of the Red Cross nurses follow, their dark 
cloaks and white head-dresses straining in the gale, and 
then the crowd of sorrowing people. Poor, humble folk 
they are, in sabots and heavy black peasant costumes. 
Old women tottering along together, bending their white- 
coiffed heads to the blast. Young women, white and 
broken-hearted. Tragedy written in changeless lines on 
their faces, innocent victims of this unspeakable war, 
bearing their last poor little offerings in their red hands, 

[15] 



1 6 War Days in Brittany 

a few rain-beaten bunches of chrysanthemums, the only- 
tribute they can offer to their dear ones. 

The bell still tolls mournfully; the bowed, black figures 
grow fainter in the mist. In from the Atlantic sweeps the 
storm, raging above the piteous mourners. Shrieking! 
Whistling! Howling! Where now the sunny France sung 
by the poets? Where the gaiety and life, so typical of the 
charming French? 

Gray clouds, wind-swept roads, black skeleton branches, 
straining away from the sea. Rain in gusts. Cold, sorrow, 
desolation in all the land ! 

Since the war began, seventy-five thousand Frenchmen 
have fallen on the field of honor. Some on the battlefields, 
some in the trenches, others destroyed beyond human 
recognition. Nameless graves cover the northern plains. 
In innumerable hospitals lie the broken remnants of 
French manhood. 

Five hundred thousand they are today, suffering untold 
agonies, helpless, uncomplaining. 

What can Americans, in the happy safety of their homes 
know of the tragedy, the death, that overwhelms us here? 

It is so far-reaching, so stupendous, so heart-breaking, 
all energy and activity become paralyzed. 

Where begin? What can one do? If one helps only a 
few hundreds, how about the thousands one cannot 
reach? 

England, in fine generosity, has sent supplies of all 
kinds: medicines, garments, hospital stores, surgical in- 
struments; five hundred tons have crossed the channel. 



Dinar d Day by Day 17 

Beyond praise, the pitying help of England! She has 
poured her wealth, her supplies, her splendid armies, 
into France, giving ungrudgingly and constantly. But 
for her timely assistance, we should be in unimaginable 
straits. But now England needs for her own. 

With her great losses in men, fifty-seven thousand; her 
own wounded the end of this October; her thousands upon 
thousands of refugees — one cannot expect her to do for all. 

How are her cousins across the Atlantic coming to our 
aid? 

Can we count on the Americans? Will their warm hearts 
send out to us these necessities for the wounded not only 
now, but during the long weary months that stretch 
in such dreary perspective before us? 

The melancholy little funeral is a daily occurrence; so 
used to it are we, one scarcely notices it. The wounded 
living claim all our pity and work. 

Darkness closes down early these bleak November 
days, and the few straggling lights illumine streets de- 
serted. At 8 o'clock all cafes close, the lamps are put out, 
and only the military patrol with their feeble lanterns 
traverse the gloom. Nothing more until the cold Novem- 
ber dawn wakes us to another day of hard work. 

Where fashionable women in luxurious motor-cars 
sped through the avenues, now soldiers hobbling on sticks 
and crutches, or wheeled in chairs, appear. Women and 
children swathed in crepe wander in dumb groups on the 
Esplanade. The shops are full of soldiers' necessities, and 
everywhere high and low, young and old, the seamstress, 



1 8 War Days in Brittany 

the shop-keeper behind her counter, the young girls tak- 
ing their morning walks, even little schoolgirls, grand- 
mammas and nurses, all are knitting. 

If a friend come to call (a rare pleasure nowadays, as 
all are too busy for social amenities), out come the needles 
from a bag. The tea hour is interrupted by the click of 
steel and the counting of stitches. 

Those who cannot nurse are knitting socks, comforters, 
chest-protectors, cholera belts, for the nights are cold on 
the battlefields and the trenches are often full of water. 
The chilling fogs creep up from the Flemish marshes and 
the little soldier, the little Piou-Piou, has many long hours 
to face the cold and darkness. Happy he who has some 
loving women to knit for him. 

Strong, vigorous young men one never sees! Only 
wounded fellows, old men in mourning, and priests cease- 
lessly on their errands of consolation and pity. 

In this hour of tribulation, France has turned devoutly 
and repentantly to religion. The tone of the press has 
changed. A reverant and humble seeking after Divine 
help is felt in their supplications. 

It is not only the women and the ancients who now pray, 
for over many hospital cots hang a crucifix, and hardened, 
indifferent men turn in their agony to the ever-present 
clergy. 

One dying man told me with great pride that though 
he had been a great scoffer and unbeliever for many 
years, "Now that he had confessed and received absolu- 
tion, he was at peace and willing to go;" so, during the 



Dinar d Day by Day 19 

long watches of the night, the old priest, broken as he 
was with fatigue and sleeplessness, sat beside the poor chap 
comforting him through the Valley of the Shadow, and 
when dawn came shortly, closed his eyes, placing the 
crucifix between the stiffening fingers. 

When the next day I placed a few flowers about the 
quiet form I found the rugged features softened, all 
coarseness had disappeared. He lay at peace with God 
and man. 

Who was he? A peasant? A shoe-maker? A factory 
hand or street cleaner? Perhaps an Apache? I do not 
know. But he gave all he had — his young life! Surely 
he has gone to his reward. 

Dinard, November, 19 14- 



DINARD ACTUALITIES 

1914-1915 



DINARD ACTUALITIES 

1914-1915 

There are four thousand wounded in Dinard this winter, 
and the need for chemises, antiseptic cotton, sacks and 
bandages, never diminishes. I, fortunately, have a few 
things left from what I brought over, and I am dealing 
them out, as if worth their weight in gold. Socks are 
much appreciated, as many are wounded in the feet, and 
cannot put on slippers or shoes. One poor wretched Bel- 
gian hospital has depended all the winter on what we 
gave them. The Matron told me but for us they would have 
had nothing. She has been up two or three times since my 
return begging socks, chemises and slippers, but, alas, I 
had none to give her! She said the men were obliged to 
stay in their rooms or beds as their uniforms were so dirty, 
torn, and shot-riddled, they had to be repaired, and, 
having nothing else to wear, they had to stay in hospital. 
I went by there the other day, a glorious sunny summer 
afternoon, and I saw such poor, white faces looking out 
so longingly, so young, and so suffering — mere boys of 
twenty, twenty-two and twenty-four. 

I hate to say too much about the sorrowing and suffer- 
ing over here — so much has been given, especially from 
America, where the generosity has been overwhelming. 
One cannot see such wistfulness and patience without 
finding a renewal of sympathy and a wish to help. 

I was notified last week, that on Saturday, July 10th, 
at 4 o'clock, the Prefet of our department (the governor 

[23] 



24 War Days in Brittany 

of the state) will come to Val Fleuri, officially, in full 
uniform, surrounded by his staff, to thank us in the name 
of France, for what we have obtained from our friends 
in America, and to express through us the Government's 
grateful recognition of America's generosity. French 
people tell me it is a rare honor which the government 
is showing us, and is an expression of France's gratitude 
to America. The Prefet asked for a report (which we sent), 
and the government has perfect cognizance from whence 
came our supplies. So that you may be sure that full 
recognition has been made for the shipments. 

Many wounded there are always, but the spirit of the 
French people is magnificent. No sacrifice is too great 
to make, no economy too severe. All France has the ut- 
most confidence in the soldiers and their generals, and 
everyone feels it is time for endurance, economy and 
work. And all, high and low, rich and poor, are putting 
their hearts and courage into the affair, with an enthus- 
iasm and devotion quite surprising to those who thought 
of France as a decadent nation. 

Yesterday I met at tea a French duchess, last year the 
most frivolous and worldly person, always dressed in the 
height of fashion and devoted to golf, bridge, and motor- 
ing. Yesterday she was dressed in a cheap, ready-made 
black serge suit, with a black straw sailor hat, trimmed 
with a black taffeta bow, such as a poor little governess 
or an upper housemaid would have worn a year ago. And 
she said she was proud to wear the costume, bought 
ready-made at the "Galleries Lafayette" for 50 francs. 



Dinard Actualities 25 

She has had a hospital in her chateau since the war 
began, where one hundred little Pious-Pious have been 
taken care of and nursed back to health, and, alas, to a 
quick return to the trenches! So she said she had no 
money "pour la toilette." 

What these French women are doing is beyond praise. 
A sober, quiet determination has taken the place of their 
erstwhile frivolity. And when one sees delicately nur- 
tured ladies doing the most ordinary menial work in the 
hospitals, not day by day, but month by month, rising at 
7 a. m., and only returning home for meals and bed at 
8.30 p. m. — women who in former times thought of nothing 
but extravagance, luxury and display — one realizes that 
there is good, red blood left in France, and the Gallic 
strain, having supported the trials of centuries, is still 
able to make a stand for justice and freedom. 

The best English and French authorities say that the 
war will last at least a year or eighteen months. An 
English colonel told me recently that the British gov- 
ernment was preparing to make heavy-calibre guns for 
August, 1916, and the French are settling down to an- 
other year or two of war, but after the Lusitania horror I 
should think all Americans would feel it their bounden 
duty to help the allies. If they are defeated, what 
chance has America against the German spirit of world 
dominion? And we want to remember that every pair of 
socks, every bandage, every roll of cotton is a stone in 
the barricade against these abominable Huns. There is 
no uncertainty, no discouragement, no failing in French 



26 War Days in Brittany 

lines or English, which hold 580 miles from the North 
Sea to Switzerland. 

I often go to the "Arrivee des Blesses." Alas, they come 
too often to the railroad station, long stretchers filled with 
broken humanity. Does one ever hear complaints, groans 
or repinings? No, never! One said to me as I gave him a 
cup of beef tea, after he had been lifted from a box car 
where he had passed three days and three nights: " Ma- 
dame, I am a homeless cripple, my eyesight is gone and 
I am forever dependent on my family, my poor wife and 
my children. But, in the future, when France is victorious 
and at peace, they will not begrudge their old father his 
sup and board, for he was decorated by the guns of 
Arras" (meaning, poor wretch, his sightless eyes). 

The Belgian soldiers are strong, able-bodied, silent fel- 
lows, and speak eagerly of their return to their country. 
They do not seem to realize that such a consummation is 
most unlikely. 

I am sending by express a few baskets made by them 
as they lie crippled on their hospital cots. The little 
money I paid for them will buy them tobacco, chocolate, 
post-cards and pencils. I should be glad if you will give 
these baskets to your friends who have so kindly sent us 
things. They are of no value, but they will show our 
appreciation of all you have done. There are also some 
rings made out of the aluminum which forms the point 
of the German shells. The men have picked them up 
on the battlefields and in the trenches — these bits, 
so full of interest and personal strife — and have made 




Wounded Arriving at the Hospitals 




Wounded at the Grand Casino Hospital — Mrs. Deming Jarves in 
Civilian Dress in Center of Group 



Dinard Actualities 27 

them into rough rings, but carrying a pathetic interest 
of their own. 

The first of the "Grands Blesses Prisonniers en Alle- 
magne" have arrived. They came via Switzerland to 
Lyons, and from there have been distributed through 
the country and seashore places. Nineteen came to 
Dinard, very severely injured — blind, many one-legged, 
and some badly disfigured, but so rejoiced, poor chaps, to 
find themselves once more in France. Some have been 
in Germany since September. They say they were kindly 
treated in the hospitals, but had precious little to eat. 
Their looks show it, being quite emaciated. Being also 
accustomed to little food, their capacity for digesting 
has also decreased — much to their regret; but, no doubt, 
that misfortune will correct itself now they are back in 
the "land of plenty." 

It appears that when the train drew up in the Lyons 
Gare, they saw hundreds of enthusiastic compatriots 
cheering and waving flags and handkerchiefs, flowers 
everywhere, and heard the "Clarions de France," some 
broke down and cried like children. They had borne the 
privations and sufferings consequent to imprisonment for 
ten long months, but when they heard those sweet, clear 
notes, and saw the "tricolor" once more (lis Avaient le 
Coeur Gros) they just gave way; that is, the weaker 
ones did. 

At the mother-house of the Little Sisters of the Poor, 
at St. Pern, one hundred and twenty-five are installed 
in that quiet convent, in the midst of the rich fields, and 



28 War Days in Brittany 

the green and peaceful woods of Brittany, with those 
good little sisters to wait upon them and nurse them; 
with fine milk, butter and eggs, chickens and fresh vege- 
tables to eat, they will soon recover and they can hardly 
express their feelings, poor fellows, but just sit smiling 
and cheery in the sun. Mere boys, many of them — thin- 
cheeked, fresh-colored, bright-eyed, but crippled for life. 
Older men, fathers of families, bronzed and calm, thank- 
ful to be in France, with the thought of soon returning to 
their wives and children. May they there regain their 
health and strength. To these brave ones, we all, Ameri- 
cans and French alike, owe an immense debt of gratitude, 
for, but for them and their like, we would be facing now a 
very different outlook. 

What impresses one above all is their modesty, patience 
and patriotism. Whether they are doctors or lawyers, 
peasants or little artisans, they all show the same soul- 
stirring love for France, they count their sufferings as 
nothing compared to the welfare of the nation. 

The life of the last ten years which we knew and loved 
so well, has vanished like the snows of yester-year. Where 
the tango was danced are now long rows of hospital cots. 
The music of the Hungarian band has given place to the 
silence of the ambulance corridors. Crippled men are 
sitting on the casino verandas where fashionable women 
in former years strolled in idleness and elegance. Horrid 
odors of iodoform and chloroform assail one, instead of 
the perfume of the flowers. The gay young girls of other 
days, who laughed and flirted and danced in these airy 



Dinard Actualities 29 

halls, are now demure Red Cross nurses, in severe white 
linen gowns, the Red Cross embroidered on their white 
veils ; a vivid testimony to their real nature and pitying 
compassion for the helpless. 

What a few awful months of this World's War seems 
to us over here. You in America, who continue to live 
as much as usual, can really have but little conception. 
To you that pageant and tragedy of war is as "A Tale that 
is Told" — very horrible, perhaps, but of necessity it can- 
not affect you intimately. You can know little of the 
heartrending day-by-day experience and hourly ordeals 
demanded of those men and women of France. 

Some few weeks ago I attended a class for "first aid" 
to the injured, whose matron was rather a formidable 
Frenchwoman, laden with years and honors. As I went 
in, a friendly Red Cross nurse murmured: "The poor 
Marquise had just received a telegram two hours ago 
announcing the death of both her sons; but, you know, 
her husband was killed in September, and she has given 
her boys to France. She does not wish it mentioned — 
do not refer to it." As I looked at that wrinkled but 
composed countenance, so stern and so calm, as I listened 
to her instructions, given in a quiet voice, it was quite 
evident that the old French proverb still holds good, 
"Bon sang ne pent meniir." There she was, an old, stricken 
mother, looking drearily into the future. Her two dear 
sons killed on the same day on the field of honor, her 
home forever desolate. But she came down, nevertheless, 
to show us how to bandage the wounded men, to teach 



30 War Days in Brittany 

us patience, endurance and control under all circum- 
stances. At night she returns to her lonely hearth to 
mourn these brave boys. But did she not need our sym- 
pathy? To us, watching this superb example, she seemed 
to embody the spirit of courage, which admits of no 
defeat. The valiant heart rising above the wreck of hap- 
piness and home to do its duty to "La Patrie." 

Only a short distance separates us from the battle- 
fields, where the manhood of France and England are 
daily laying down their lives in defense of their countries. 
God grant that no such sacrifice may ever be demanded 
of America. To us who have remained in France, life 
has become a very solemn reality; as we go forth in sober 
garb and spirit to do what we can for these suffering 
hundreds, wounded men and boys, lonely young widows, 
stricken parents, we realize intensely that life in Europe 
has utterly changed. The old order of things has passed 
away. What will replace it? Who can tell? 

Letter Written to Dr. Livingston Seaman, 
British War Relief in New York, 
July, 1915. 



TO A DYING BOY 



TO A DYING BOY 



Poor little soldier, lying there weak and wounded, 

Why were you born to live so brief a day? 
Is your young manhood but to serve as target 

For the grim guns of war to injure or to slay? 
So young to die. On lip and cheek and forehead 

Still flame youth's brilliant colors, white and red, 
And your clear eyes so full of hope and courage, 

Must we tomorrow count you with the dead? 

All life before you; glad and useful hours 

Lay shining in your path unsullied, clear, 
Youth's dreams fulfilled in manhood's ampler duties, 

A wife, a home, and all that we hold dear 
Vanished. In one short hour's tragic action, 

Swept from the world of man and manly ways. 
Naught but a memory in your mother's bosom, 

Shall soon recall your transient, earthly days. 

In vain our aid. Our utmost skill and patience 

Cannot re-string the loosened silver cord. 
The golden bowl is broken at the fountain, 

And your lone soul must hence to meet it's God, 
Lonely, yet clad in beauty pure and holy, 

For of your best you gave, unstinted, glad, 
That at your country's call all selfish thought and purpose 

Faded away — you gave your life, dear lad! 

Dinard, 1915 

[33] 



THE SUBSTITUTE MOTHER 



THE SUBSTITUTE MOTHER 

(A Story of France) 

In the old house, heavily garlanded with ivy and climb- 
ing roses, at the end of the village, lived the old maid. 
Through vistas of thick foliage, the broken sky-line of 
tiled roofs appeared. In the west, the church tower showed 
dark against the sunset skies. 

Here she had lived in seclusion these many years. Her 
pigeons feeding on the green lawn. Her rose garden, 
fragrant and sunny, facing the Eastern hills. Her peulail- 
ler (poultry yard), her dogs, her cats, filled the long hours 
of her austere life. 

In solitude she ate her well-cooked meals. By the stone 
fireside (in other years the center of family life and 
gaiety) she sat in the evenings reading her Figaro, with 
her knitting in the recesses of the Louis XVI "trieoteuse" 
close at hand in case the print became blurred, which so 
often happened of late. Meditating, her pure thoughts 
far from the world and its stormy passions, her judgment 
became, perhaps, too severe; her charity a trifle too cus- 
tomary and censorious. All her actions were the result 
of axioms and precepts laid down years ago by long- 
dead parents. To her the past shone with a glorious 
light of Humanity and Youth, full of kindly people and 
cheerful pleasures and gay days. The present, so 
solitary and sad, had crept upon her unperceived, to 
find her with wrinkling brow and graying hair, more 
and more lonely. 

[37] 



38 War Days in Brittany 

Every morning at early mass she looked with non- 
comprehension into the faces of the elderly women — her 
contemporaries — mothers these many years. Long ago 
they loved and married, leaving "la Mademoiselle" to 
her patrician seclusion up at the "great house." Lusty 
youths and strong, fresh-faced girls clustered about these 
contemporaries; sweet-faced young women, holding babies 
against their rounded breasts; boys touched their caps 
in awe as she left the church; girls smiled, blushing and 
demure; children sucked their thumbs and bobbed cour- 
tesies; but to none was she vital or important. To them 
the world was full of busy pleasures and activities, of 
warm summer days and young joys; to her, bending over 
her endless tapestry-work in the silence of the old manor, 
the world seemed trite indeed. Her home was so orderly, 
so clean, so proper, so remote from life. No muddy foot- 
prints on the wax floors, no child's toys forgotten in the 
corner, no cap or jacket thrown carelessly on disturbed 
furniture. Her apartments were sweet with lavender and 
roses, but tobacco smoke was a stranger to their antique 
propriety. 

Now, suddenly, all these quiet ways, these time-honored 
habits were destroyed. War broke over France and she, 
with countless of her countrywomen, donned the white 
linen gown embroidered with that cross-of-red emblem 
of so many sacrifices and devotions. The hastily-installed 
hospital became her only thought; all her energy, care, 
and patience must be brought to the aid of the broken 
men as her tribute to the defenders of France. 



The Substitute Mother 39 

In the long whitewashed hall, on whose blank walls 
the crucifix hung alone, stood the double row of beds, 
where lay these valiant fellows. Young boys of eighteen 
and twenty, arms and legs in plaster or bound in blood- 
stained bandages; forced, poor chaps, to the sight of such 
horrors on the battlefields as to remove forever their 
youthful joyance of life. Older men, bearded and bronzed, 
talked to her of their family life; of their wives and chil- 
dren; of the little humdrum everyday experiences, so 
unknown to her, so commonplace and vital to them. 
Gone for her the tranquil days of yester-year, her collec- 
tion of laces, her bibelets, her books, her revues — all 
her souvenirs of years of sedate living and tranquil 
seclusion. 

Only the maps of the battlefields interested her now; 
the long, hard duties of the Red Cross nurse were more 
entrancing than her most delightful journeys in Italy, 
or her summers in Switzerland. Many things she saw, 
heard, and was obliged to do, she was often shocked and 
horrified, but courage, patience and skill were daily de- 
manded of her. A great endurance necessary for such 
arduous work, and her compassion ever inspired renewed 
effort. Life and death were there in frightful reality before 
her eyes, so to the round-shouldered, gray-headed woman 
these great facts became the motive power of her life. 
She became the willing, compassionate servant of this 
army of cripples. What surprises she received! What 
human misery she witnessed! What confessions she heard! 
She must write a last message to a distant mother from 



40 War Days in Brittany 

her dying son. There a strong man, now a cripple, im- 
plored her to tell his wife of his misfortune; again an 
ignorant, faithful creature begged for news of his family. 
Since the war began, nearly two years ago, no word of 
them had reached him. To all these little duties she 
added the care of their injured bodies, the dressing of 
wounds, the feeding of the helpless. 

To her, who so short a time ago lived in lonely luxury, 
to whom the world and life were as a closed book; to her, 
who last year was satisfied with her dogs and chickens, 
her cats and pigeons, who looked with a half-scornful, 
half-indignant commiseration on the vibrant life around 
her, had come a great illumination! From these big chil- 
dren, the rough "poilus," soldiers she nursed so tenderly, 
she learned instinctively! They opened their hearts to 
her, they showed her their anguish and suffering! They 
called her "La Petite Mere," turning to her in all hours 
for consolation and help. So when the "Demoiselle" went 
home after 12 hours' work for these wounded ones, her 
heart was filled with a great rejoicing; a warmth and 
satisfaction such as she had never known stole through 
her weary body; aching feet were forgotten, and to God 
she sent up a prayer of thankfulness that she had been 
allowed "to serve." 

It was a lovely June evening. The night breeze, fra- 
grant with new-mown hay and the perfume of sleeping 
field-flowers, stole through the open window, fluttering 
the "Veilleuse" as it cast its feeble light and shadow over 
the still form lying in the white sheet, so soon to become 



The Substitute Mother 41 

its shroud. The old "Demoiselle" sat there in pious 
thought, her eyes fixed on the boy she had nursed so 
many months, now so near to death; the boy whose soul 
had been washed clean by the Holy Sacrament and whose 
body was so soon to disappear from the world of men. 
Poor fellow, so far from all who loved him, his white 
features showed pinched and thin in the light of the cres- 
cent moon, looking over the black masses of trees into 
the desolate white room. From time to time his stiffen- 
ing lips murmered "mother." He turned his head feebly 
from side to side seeking her, who, in a far-away province, 
knew nothing of her son's agony. The hours dragged on, 
the young moon disappeared behind the trees, the mori- 
bund moaned gently from time to time. A cooler breeze, 
fore-runner of morning freshness, swept through the 
wood. The "Demoiselle" still kept her vigil, changing 
her patient's pillow, holding a cup of water to his lips. 
Suddenly he gave an agonizing cry: "My mother! My 
mother! Where art thou? I cannot see! It is growing 
dark! Hold me, my mother, hold me!" 

Then to the old maid came her great moment. Taking 
the poor, trembling form in her arms, she pillowed the 
rolling head on her bosom and pressing her lips to the 
dying boy's forehead she whispered: "I am here, my son! 
Do not fear. I, your mother, hold you. You are safe in 
my arms, my little one. Rest in peace." 

The sun rose in glorious June splendor; the birds were 
singing their morning matins; the dewy flowers cast 
forth a ravishing fragrance — only in the sickroom was 



42 War Days in Brittany 

there silence, but also a holy peace, for the old maid — 
she who had never lied, who had scorned and re- 
proved those who did so — had lied eagerly to comfort 
the passing spirit of a boy. 

Dinard, June, 1915. 



THE SONS OF FRANCE 



. — _ - -— 




DEBOUT DANS LA TRANCHEE 
QUE L'AURORE ECLAIRE. LE SOLDAT 
REVE A LA VICTOIREet A SON FOYER. 

POUR QU'IL PUISSE ASSURER L'UNE 
ET RETROUVER L'AUTRE. 

SOUSCRIVEZ 
au 3!EMPRUNTPI DEFENSE NATIONALE 



THE SONS OF FRANCE 

1915 

To you, in God's country, safe and sound, far removed 
from the conditions existing over here, a few notes of our 
daily existence may not come amiss. 

First, let me quote the lines found on a dead boy in 
Champagne, his "Feuille de route" (diary), which shows 
eloquently how the little "piou-piou" feels these sorrowful 
days of 1914. 

Feuille de Route 

Diary of Albert Ledrean, volunteer for France in the 
war of 1914. Aged 18 years. In the 10th Regiment of 
Infantry. Fell on the field of honor, October 17th, 1914, 
in Champagne. (This diary was found on his body and 
sent home to his mother.) : 

"Auxonne, Cotes d' Or, September 15th, 1914 — At 
last this long-wished-for moment has arrived. The 
great clock on the facade in our barracks marks 12:45, 
it is the hour for our departure; the clear notes of the 
bugles announce our colonel's approach; he appears, his 
fine horse curvetting and prancing, and our battalion 
stands rigidly at attention as he passes us on review. He 
draws his sword and gives orders to advance. The regi- 
mental music shrills loudly, our troopers with quick steps 
and alert bearing, start for the battlefields, which we 
have so long desired to see. 

"We have decorated our rifles with huge bunches of 
flowers. On our route the people have strewn autumn 
leaves. More than one woman weeps as we go by, for 
our passing recalls so vividly to them, those poor women, 
their husbands, or brothers, or sons, who are fighting 

[45] 



46 War Days in Brittany 

out yonder in the defense of the sacred soil of France. 
At the railway station a large crowd awaits, hands are 
shaken, adieux are made to those comrades who remain. 
We climb into the waiting train. Our colonel calls us to 
the windows and stirs our souls with a speech of patriotic 
feeling. He gives the accolade to our commander, and 
through him, to us all. The train starts, as the strains 
of the Marseillaise float in the air. From all our throats 
burst the cry, "Vive la France!" The regiment, massed 
near the station, salutes us, the bayonets glisten in the 
pale autumn sun and the drums and bugles sound gaily. 
We lean far out of the windows waving our kepis joyously 
to the crowd. The train moves faster and faster to our 
unknown destination. Who knows where? But what does 
it matter? It is for our country. 

"Wednesday, September 28th — We were marched 
today to Dugny, by Verdun. Our adjutant ordered us 
to descend from our train at 8 a.m., and with enthusiasm 
we stepped through the clear morning air towards our 
destination. In traversing the village we met large 
Parisian autobuses heavily ladened with meat for the 
ravitallement of our troops; it was droll indeed to 
see the great vehicles with signs "Trocadero, Odeon, 
Porte Maillot, Louvre, Versailles, etc., in big letters here 
in the silence of the Champagne plains, so far from the 
crowded Paris streets, where before the war, they carried 
their human freight. 

"We find the bridges destroyed everywhere, so to cross 
the streams we have much ado, the little makeshifts being 
very shaky and uncertain. We see many things of interest 
in our march. A captive balloon balancing in the blue air 
above a hill at the entrance of the village of Rangiere. 
We perceive the piteous results of the marmites of William, 
the Kaiser, vast holes of great circumference everywhere. 
Even as we arrived we heard the noise of two huge mar- 
mites which burst 500 metres from us. We saw a great 



The Sons of France 47 

black smoke, and dirt and earth springing into the air. 
Then our great cannons answered, our 75s joined the 
party, five minutes of cannonade and we no longer heard 
the shells of William. 

"We were then allowed a short rest after our fifteen- 
mile walk, before descending to the village, where we are 
now resting in a barn with some Chasseurs d'Afrique. 
They are good comrades, these Chasseurs, we make 
friends at once, and have much to say, each recounting 
his thoughts and ideas of this war. 

"Thursday, September 29th — At 7 a. m., we left 
Rangiere to find our regiment. We met a Taube flying 
above our heads. Our batteries fired on it, we deploying 
to offer less of a target. Later it flew towards the German 
lines, and my company reached a little wood where we 
spent the night. The shells whistled over our heads all 
the time; it is not gay, that noise. 

"Friday, September 30th — Our Battalion has 24 hours' 
rest. The shells and shrapnels from Germany shriek all 
day and all night. I asked if these were the big ones. A 
man laughed and said "No, mon ami, ce sont les enfants." 
(No, my friend, these are the baby ones.) It never stops, 
this cannonade and shooting. 

"Wednesday, October 4th — We are since four days 
in the front line, in the trenches, like foxes in their holes. 
The French and German shells never stop howling over 
our heads. On all sides, noise! noise! noise! 

"Friday, October 6th — We are of the reserve; we 
leave our trenches to rest back yonder. On the way I 
saw the graves of two French soldiers, two crosses of 
wood at their heads. Ah, how obscure, but how noble, these 
graves of two sons of France, fallen on the field of honor. 

"Monday, October 9th — We are back in the trenches. 
A funny thing has happened. Our sergeant hung his 
flannel shirt on the parapet of the trench to dry. A Ger- 



48 War Days in Brittany 

man shell burst at 50 metres. He ran in terror to save 
his shirt. 'Ah!' he cried, 'that would be too much, the 
dirty Germans, after they have destroyed the Cathedral 
of Reims, they want to burn my only flannel shirt/ 

"Tuesday, October 10th — Went to the trench at 6 
o'clock. At 7 o'clock our batteries commenced their fire. 
Our 75' swept the earth for 80 metres in front of us, the 
enemies' cannonading ceased. Our 75' redoubled in 
speed; we could hear the boches howling with pain. Then 
the German marmites recommenced. We assisted at an 
artillery duel which lasted till noon. The rest of the day 
and night was quiet. 

"Wednesday, October 11th — We left this morning 
at 6 a. m., for an unknown destination. At the entrance 
of the wood we ate our 'Soupe' and then started on our 
route. Adieu! woods of the Woevre, we have not been 
too unhappy in thy valleys and on thy hillsides, although 
for a month I have not undressed. In the trenches we 
had little straw and no warmth, rain and cold were our 
constant companions, but we shall still regret thee, for 
we may find much worse further on." 

So he did ... He found his death. 



Extracts from a letter written to his family by a sub- 
lieutenant from the battlefield of Champagne, October 
23rd, 1915: 

"At 9 o'clock we were all assembled on the first line. 
Orders passed from mouth to mouth. Bayonets are fixed 
to our rifles, each looking to his equipment, paying atten- 
tion to the last detail. Nothing must be lacking on this 
momentous day, longingly awaited since many months. 
We all shake hands, some even embrace, wishing each 
other good luck; some with eyes brilliant with impatience, 



The Sons of France 49 

await the longed-for signal; others, calmer perhaps, 
although equally eager, polish their muskets with their 
handkerchiefs. It is raining heavily and mud is every- 
where, but all our spirits are high. 9:15 — The hour has 
come! The artillery increases the range of its shells. The 
first wave of men hurl themselves out of the trenches. 
What a magnificent moment. A rain of shells falls round, 
blowing to atoms some of the first line of soldiers. All 
along our immense front the infantry springs from the 
trenches, the bands playing shrilly the 'Marseillaise.' 
The bugle and the drums sound the charge. A roar of 
voices answer. With fixed bayonets we rush towards the 
German trenches, while their mitrailleuses mow us down. 
Our way is strewn already with corpses and wounded. 
Blood lies in pools or soaks in streams into the broken 
soil. From time to time the survivors fling themselves on 
the ground to escape the gale of shells. Notwithstanding 
this hell-fire, or the sharpshooters, we press through the 
woods. The cannons! The cannons! We must save them! 
"All of us understand that this is a great day of battle 
for us French. We must win. Without hesitation, we 
must sacrifice our life and blood. We must fight to our 
last breath." 



Here are quoted some reports made by the commanders 
of regiments and brigades. Words coming often from 
humble mouths, but inspired by the highest patriotism: 

A Colonial infantryman wounded in the foot in the 
beginning of the action limped to a "Poste de Secours" 
and said, "Here, quick, put on a strong bandage, I have 
only killed one so far. I am wild to get back." He was 
last seen climbing frantically up the slopes of "la Main de 
Massiges." 



50 War Days in Brittany 

A captain, his face streaming with blood from a ghastly 
wound, refused to retire. "Today one pays no attention 
to little wounds, it is only death that will stop me now!" 

A boyish lieutenant, as the first wave of men swept for- 
ward, shouted to his command: "Allons, Forward! 
Heads up, eyes straight. Fight! Fight!! Fight!!! Today 
we are going to enjoy ourselves. We are going to protect 
the sacred soil of France." He fell five minutes later. 

A colonel of Colonial infantry, nick-named the bravest 
of the "Poilus," although severely wounded in the head, 
pushed forward to climb the "Entonnoir" of the crater. 
As he fell he shouted: "Onward! Onward, my brave lads. 
I would lead but I have lost too much blood. You are 
heroes all. En avant mes enfants!" ("Forward, my chil- 
dren, for France!") 

Let me note a few words of personal experience : It was 
a gray cold day in early November. The little ferry-boat 
which runs between St. Malo and Dinar d tossed heavily 
in the yellow-green waves rolling in from the channel. 
The decks were awash with spume and water, the sharp 
north wind whistled around our ears. I huddled down 
in the corner behind the pilothouse. Nothing but necessity 
would have driven me forth on such a day, but when one 
hears of 130 wounded arriving the day before in a remote 
convent hospital, one puts personal comfort aside and 
goes forth. The wind was piercing and brutal, even my 
fur coat was a poor protection against this bitter assailant 
from the north. Miserable and shivering I crouched be- 
hind the weak shelter, sincerely wishing I had never come. 



The Sons of France 51 

Suddenly a cheerful voice wished me "Bon Jour." 

A Zouave, baggy trousers, fez, clear bronze complexion, 
aquiline features, flashing eye, stood before me. 

"Madame will permit that I seat myself on her bench?" 
he said. 

"But certainly/' I replied, looking with interest at 
this injured youth from afar. "Whence came you, mon 
petit?" ("my little one") I said, "you do not look any too 
strong to stand this winter gale." 

"Quite true, Madame," he replied, "but we Zouaves 
are accustomed to the cold and storm." 

"But surely you came from a warm country, mon 
soldat? The Zouaves are from Africa are they not?" 

"True, I am from Tunis," he replied. 

"On such a day you must long for your country?" I 
asked. 

"Helas, oui. The orange trees are forever in bloom there, 
the heliotrope and hibiscus blossom all winter. The rose- 
scent hangs heavy on the air, there in my home! Even 
now I think of the deep blue sky, the long dusty road 
leading out into the desert; again I see the palms, the 
cacti; that is, if I close my eyes. Sometimes when it is 
dark and cold, and one is sad in the trenches, I cannot 
help wondering if ever again I shall sit beneath the 
awnings of the Cafe de France, or shall see the dusky 
women, in linen, walking to the fountain, or shall smell 
the dry heavy dust, or shall sit tranquilly in the blazing 
sun of 'La Tunisie.' Ah, oui, Madame, all that is many 
miles away from this cold, gray land of yours. 



52 War Days in Brittany 

"But at the front that was another story. See, I have 
been wounded twice, and am here convalescing. All I 
dream of is to go back to the trenches. Ours is at Neuport. 
Only 1 metre (13 feet) separates us from the 'bodies,' 
they call to us often from their side (they speak good 
French, too) ordering us to surrender for they are bound 
to win, and we are only losing time. We answer, too. 
We give them something to think about." 

"But what were you before the war, soldier?" I asked. 

"An antiquaire, Madame. I sold Persian carpets, brass 
lamps, leather goods to the tourists who came to my 
beautiful Tunisie." 

"What will you do afterwards, my soldier?" 

"That is as God wills, madame. Who knows? Can I 
even know where I shall be a week hence? All I want 
now is to get back to my regiment. To the front." With 
a military salute he left me. 

At the hospital they were very busy. About 180 had 
just arrived from the great battle in Champagne; almost 
all wounded in the legs, many with only one to limp on. 

"How comes it," I asked, "that you are all injured in 
the legs?" 

"That is simple," answered a cheery looking fellow, 
"the boches just turned the mitrailleuses on us, like a man 
playing a hose on the lawn, but low down you see, so it 
caught us in the knees mostly. However, we have hands 
and arms still — a man can do a lot with them, even if 
he must have false legs or use crutches." 

One pale, emaciated fellow said: "Madame, would 



The Sons of France 53 

you help me to the window to look at the sea. I have 
never seen it, and since, in July, I was wounded with 
34 eclats d'obus (34 shell wounds) they have promised 
me, I should come to that great wonder, the sea!" 

As I put my arm under his skeleton one, felt how thin 
and bony it was, looked at his poor pale young face and 
tried to realize what life in the future held for this battered 
young creature, my soul felt sick within me at all this 
useless waste and destruction. He did not complain, this 
little soldier. He only wanted to look on the cold northern 
ocean, which he had never before seen. The future was 
for him perhaps as gray, as cheerless, as sad, but, however 
despairing his thoughts may have been, he did not speak 
them. He did not whimper. Once for all he had given his 
all for France, and now in his feebleness he counted on 
kind souls to help him. Hundreds, nay thousands like 
him exist today, all over this sad old continent of Europe, 
vigorous young men now condemned forever to the dull 
and painful existence of a cripple. One hears on all sides 
of the courage and self-sacrifice of both the French and 
English Roman Catholic priests, how they cheer and 
encourage the men, bringing peace to the dying, nursing 
the wounded, holding services within the firing line, show- 
ing by example the highest patriotism. 

An officer belonging to Nantes, in a letter to his wife 
on September 20th, describes a moving ceremony he had 
attended that morning: 

"At 8 o'clock I heard a Mass said by the chaplain of 
the — th Territorials, a plank had been nailed up between 



54 War Days in Brittany 

two trees, and behind had been placed some leafy branches 
the best that our men could do under the circumstances. 
The chaplain began by addressing us a few words in which 
he told us that God would make allowance whilst work 
was being done for France; that he could not hear all 
our confessions, and that we should, therefore, make an 
act of contrition and a firm purpose of confessing our 
faults as soon as possible. 

"All the 300 of us then signed that we wished to be 
included in the general absolution, which he gave us. 
After he exhorted all to receive the Holy Communion, 
which he would give us as he passed along the trenches. 
He then began the Mass, which was served by a lieutenant. 
Shells were bursting over-head as the Mass continued 
and during his short address after the Gospel. Never 
had I heard more fervent singing. At the Communion 
half of our number went up to the altar to receive, some 
with tears in their eyes, what was to many their Viaticum. 
The ceremony will be to me an unforgetable memory 
and a sweet consolation." 

Let me quote a notice from the Tablet of October 30th, 
about an English priest. The following account of the 
devotion to duty shown during the fighting 'round Hill 
70, by Father John Gwynn, S. J., who died of wounds 
received in a dug-out, is given in a letter from an Irish 
Guardsman : 

"Father Gwynn was known among the boys as 'the 
brave little priest.' Early in the war he was seriously 
wounded but refused to return to England. During the 
terrible fighting recently, Father Gwynn was again at 
his post. I saw him just before he died. Shrapnel and 
bullets were being showered upon us in all directions. 
Hundreds of our lads dropped. Father Gwynn was undis- 



The Sons of France 55 

mayed, he seemed to be all over the place trying to give 
the last sacrament to the dying. Once I thought he was 
buried alive, for a shell exploded within a few yards of 
where he was, and the next moment I saw nothing but a 
great heap of earth. The plight of the wounded con- 
cealed beneath was harrowing. Out of the ground came 
cries, 'Father! Father! Father!' from those who were in 
their death agonies. 

"Then, as if by a miracle, Father Gwynn was seen to 
fight his way through the earth. He must have been 
severely wounded, but he went on blessing the wounded 
and hearing their confessions. The last I saw of him he 
was kneeling by the side of a German soldier. It was a 
scene to make you cry. The shells continued to explode 
about the wounded, but they could not stop a little 
English priest from doing his duty, even to a dying Ger- 
man." 

One more item to add to these vignettes of our soldiers. 
I have told you of the volunteer, the lieutenant, the 
zouave and the priests. Now of a soldier (by profession) 
of the Colonial infantry. He had served nine years, hav- 
ing received two medals for the Moroccan campaign. 

Last October, the 30th, a very dangerous reconnais- 
sance was necessary before a certain action in the Argonne. 
The colonel called for volunteers, Petit immediately 
volunteered. He was given ten men, warned of the 
desperate nature of his work, and wished God-speed. The 
Germans were supposed to be intrenched behind a small 
wood over the crest of a hill There was a long slope to 
climb, a road to cross, another abrupt ascent to the wood. 

It was brilliant moonlight. The men crept forward, 
seeking every shadow or bush or hollow to cover them. 



56 War Days in Brittany 

They had climbed the first slope, crossed the road and 
were well up the second hill when they were suddenly 
swept by German rifle fire. 

Petit glanced behind. All but two were lying bleeding 
and dead. He called to the other two to race back to 
their trenches, if possible, but he himself continued to 
creep through the straggling undergrowth up the crest. 
After some minutes, having discovered what he came to 
seek, the position and force of the enemy, he hastily 
retreated down the hill. Of the two survivors, one had 
already cleared the road and escaped. The other was 
lying, a moaning heap, on the white moonlit highway. 

The Germans were firing at his flying figure, but a few 
steps more and he would have crossed the road — when 
he fell. Presently he picked himself up. One eye was 
gone, the blood streaming down his cheeks. But he 
determined, as he said, to revenge his comrades and him- 
self. Staggering to the road he, with great difficulty, 
dragged his wounded companion off the road and to the 
shelter of some bushes. Fortunately, at that moment, 
a cloud passed over the moon, and they were able to lie 
hidden for a while. Then, with many struggles, he suc- 
ceeded in getting his one remaining companion on his 
shoulders, and dragged himself back to the French lines. 
His information was of importance, but he did not know of 
it, for he lost consciousness immediately on delivering it. 

The next day his company went into action and was 
annihilated. Of the 200 men, he and the man whose life 
he saved were the only survivors. 



The Sons of France 57 

Months afterward I was able to welcome this gallant 
son of France back to Dinard. He is my maid's only 
brother, and the night he arrived we had a fitting supper 
awaiting him. My brother and I, and my cheery little 
French maid drank his health and listened to this story 
from his own lips. I am happy to say he is strong and 
well and active, and makes light of the wound. 

"After all, Madame," he said, "a man can see all he 
wants with one eye, and if later I find some pretty girl 
to marry me, she may find that one eye will see only good 
in her, whereas, perhaps, as the years went by, I might 
have perceived, with two eyes, some faults." 

One fine day this autumn I was invited to a little 
ceremony. The general commanding this region, sur- 
rounded by the pickets, the soldiers able to hobble about, 
the Red Cross nurses, and some of Petit's personal friends. 
It was to decorate him for conspicuous bravery under fire. 
The bugle shrilled loudly, an adjutant read the official 
announcement, the general stepped up and pinned on 
Petit's breast the Medaille Militaire and the Croix de 
Guerre. Thus France recognizes and rewards her valiant 
soldiers. 

October, 1915. 



HAIL TO THE DEAD ! 



HAIL TO THE DEAD1 

(Salut Aux Marts!) 

How many sad hearts are in France this night of the 
Jour des Marts (All SouTs Day), in this third dolorous 
year of the Great War? All over the country, from earli- 
est hours, thousands upon thousands of black-clad 
mourners have placed their homage of respect and love 
on the tombs of those who have died in the past twelve 
months. Churches held constant services, chants and 
prayers rose in unbroken succession; bells tolled, people 
flocked to the cemeteries; everywhere the "soul of the 
French" has been in communion with its dead and this 
great national and religious festival has been observed as 
never before. 

In Paris and its suburbs nearly a million accomplished 
this sacred duty. Every town and village was filled with 
sorrowing throngs. Seeing all this desolation and sadness, 
one wonders how they can so steadfastly look forward to 
another year of war. 

When one remembers how many beautiful lives have 
been sacrificed in the last twelve months, how much of 
talent, art, intellect and science has been ruthlessly 
destroyed when these promising men died, does it seem 
strange that the whole nation has gone forth to honor 
their dead? How many young fellows, just leaving the 
Lycee thoroughly prepared by years of hard study to 
accomplish great things in their chosen profession, have 
been wounded, or killed, or maimed? What humanity 

1611 



62 War Days in Brittany 

has lost will never be known, but that the loss is stupen- 
dous is acknowledged by everyone. 

Each man and woman has someone to grieve for 
tonight. Countless young widows are facing the future, 
deprived forever of the companionship of their help- 
mates, some so young as to have had only a few months 
happiness. To how many childish eyes is shown (in tears 
and sorrow) the photograph of le pere mort pour la patrie 
(the father who died for his country). Poor little ones, 
they will never know his loving care, his solicitude for 
their welfare, his devoted protection. To them he will 
always be a wonderful heroic being, remote and imperson- 
al, who cannot share their little pleasures and troubles, 
can never play with them or be their friend ! 

The poor old fathers and mothers, how bent and tragic 
they are ! All they cherished on earth has gone ! Slowly 
and painfully they move amongst the be-flowered graves, 
and life holds no further happiness for them. Let me 
describe the procession as it passed on the way to the 
burying ground. First came the school children in two 
long files on either side of the boulevard, leaving the center 
free, the little boys walking two by two, clutching their 
sprays of chrysanthemums, gay and laughing as if on a 
frolic, but sobering suddenly when the teacher's eye 
veered in their direction; following them a hundred little 
girls, much more demure, stepping daintily, well clad, 
even the poorest putting on their best for this great 
national fete. 

The Mayor is escorted on either side by the French and 




Procession on the Way to the Cemetery 



«& .i'Sq^^mm^^^ jiffs' - '^ r 


1 Jfi -->., H H^HBmCI 







French Cemeteries Decorated on the "Jour des Morts" 



Hail to the Dead! 63 

Belgian "Commandants de Place," one in Belgian khaki 
and the other in horizon-blue, (the latter limping badly, 
a hero from Verdun where he won the Croix de Guerre 
and the Medalle Militaire), the doctors in uniform and 
the Red Cross nurses whose white dresses, blue caps and 
veils add a note of color, and present a cheering appear- 
ance in contrast to the convalescing Belgians who follow, 
very sombre, in their black uniforms and black caps. 

Two hundred-odd Frenchmen, striding after them, are 
very different in appearance and behavior. The Belgians 
are gloomy and taciturn, moving along in silent ranks; 
the Frenchmen, on the contrary, are full of life and nerve 
(their wounds notwithstanding), attired in delicious 
shades of blues and reds and creamy-white — the light 
blue of the Hussars, the darker shades of the Chasseurs 
Alpins, the brilliant Zouaves, the red trousers of the 
Fantassians; even the black-faced scarlet-clad Senegalais 
give a lively note, for these men are convalescing, and old 
clothes are good enough, their new horizon-blue uniforms 
being kept for their return to the front. 

A very pleasant crowd they form, with an eye towards 
the pretty Bretonne in her peasant coiffe and costume, 
with a laugh for a comrade, and a merry word for the 
bystander. Behind these plucky fellows (perhaps on the 
battlefield tomorrow) come the townspeople and peasants 
from the neighboring country. The procession moves on 
to the cemetery, where prayers and speeches, patriotic 
and religious, are made, wreaths placed on the little 
wooden crosses. White-coiffed heads are bowed in silent 



64 War Days in Brittany 

communion, and over all tolls the solemn notes of the 
church bell. 

All over France today there has been a great coming 
and going. Flowers are placed lovingly and regretfully 
on the mounds. But to how many, even this last service 
is denied, for the northern battlefields hide many unknown 
graves. Only in spirit can these afflicted ones visit the 
last resting-place of father, husband, son, or fiance. But 
who shall say that the great army of heroic souls, so 
lately passed over, are not present, consoling and com- 
forting by their spiritual presence, their grieving people? 
The French have often been considered a frivolous race, 
but no one who has seen the solemn way in which they 
fulfil this pious duty can ever believe it again. 

"One could kneel before our soldiers," said one of our 
great chiefs in one of the most tragic moments in the long 
agonizing siege before Verdun. In face of the most violent 
attacks, under the infernal bombardment, such acts of 
heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion took place, that 
one realized how deep is their sense of duty, and how 
great their determination, expressed in their own battle- 
cry, "They shall not get through." (lis ne passerons pas!) 

This same martial spirit is found all along the line. 
What can be more novel and inspiring than the aviators 
who fight their fantastic duels 3000 metres above the 
earth? Again, the sangfroid, the supreme devotion of 
the artillery, who amidst apalling losses and the heaviest 
bombardment, stick to their posts, regulating their fire 
and working their guns, taking every risk without a 



Hail to the Dead ! 65 

moment's hesitation. The infantry, that backbone of the 
army with their "elan" carry forward the banner of 
France or die heroically in no-man's land. 

In every attack, glorious acts are done, often by the 
humblest of soldiers, whose abnegation and modesty is 
only equalled by their scorn of death! One is amazed at 
this wonderful state of mind. Men of all ages and all 
conditions excel in these heroic qualities. Fathers of 
families, who know how anxiously they are awaited in 
the home; young men, with the call of life ringing in their 
ears, go gaily into the combat — they have counted the 
cost — and lay down their lives with simplicity and dignity; 
with no other thought than their duty to their country; 
with no other ambition than "to be there when we get 
them {d'etre la quand on les aura)." 

Pessimists and pacifists will say, "Oh, yes, that is very 
noble, very sublime; but when the heat of the battle is 
past, when excitement and furor has disappeared, what 
is left to the poor fellows, suffering from wounds, fever 
and pain? They must be greatly disillusioned then, these 
gay soldiers." Yet he who speaks thus, let him go to any 
ward in any of the great hospitals in Paris or elsewhere 
and there receive his answer. Here is a soldier of the 
class of 1914. When he left for the war, his family was 
in easy circumstances. His father a well-to-do merchant, 
his mother and sisters lived comfortably and happily in 
their charming home. Since then the father has died, 
poverty came, his sisters now are working for their liv- 
ing, supporting the mother, and he, young, vigorous, 



66 War Days in Brittany 

intelligent, and well-educated, who in ordinary times 
would have replaced the father, has received a terrific 
wound in the head, and is blind for life. 

Does he whimper or complain? Hear his answer: "I 
ought to have been killed" he said pleasantly, "when they 
drew the bullet from my head. I might have remained an 
idiot or an epileptic, but, thank God, I am getting better 
and better, and I shall learn a trade. I am told there are 
good ones for the blind and I shall help support my dear 
ones." 

Here again is a lad, a young soldier of the last class of 
1916 sent to the front. He is almost a child, but he has 
the patience and courage of a man. A terrible wound in 
the spine, cutting it open to the marrow, did not cause him 
to despair. To his weeping parents he said: "Don't weep, 
dearest mother, I shall recover, I shall get well, I shall 
go home with you, to be your little boy again," and in 
panting voice he went on to praise the skill of the doctors, 
the tenderness of the innrmiere, saying, "Yes, she hurts 
me terribly at times, so I must cry out, but she is so good, 
so kind, I forgive her when the dressing is over." 

Further on, a man with a shattered shoulder suffers 
atrociously, but tells me with a cheerful grin that he is 
glad to have seen it, to have found himself surrounded by 
Germans with raised arms shouting "Kamerad!" One 
of the lady visitors offering to be his amanuensis (as he 
cannot write), he accepted with joy, and then, blushing, 
said: "But you see, Madame, it is a bit difficult, I am 
accustomed to calling my wife by a pet name; if I began 



Hail to the Dead! 67 

my letter otherwise she would not believe it was from 



me." 



"Yes, and how do you wish it to begin?" asked the lady. 

"Well, Madame, I always called her 'my little Rat'." 

"All right, here goes for 'my little Rat'." 

One more instance: A pale, emaciated man of middle 

age, with both hands amputated, suffering a martyrdom 

without a murmur, without a reference to what happened 

to him on the battlefield, accepts with gentle politeness 

the cakes and chocolates offered to him. Seeing a large 

letter on his bed, I asked if he had news from home. "No, 

madame, it is from the government announcing that I am 

decorated with the Medaille Militaire and the Croix de 

Guerre. Please read it to me." "N , cannon-servant, 

was admirable for devotion and sang froid; when a shell 
wrecked his cannon and killed all his companions, severely 
wounded himself in both hands, he remained at his post 
alone, notwithstanding his atrocious pain, to guard the 
remains of his companions and his cannon." 

To people upheld by such ideals, inspired with such 
patriotism, to whom France means all that is sacred and 
beautiful, "defeat cannot come." Until the detested 
enemy has been thrown across the Rhine, no suggestion 
of peace would be welcome; they will even call on the 
rlead to defend their beloved land, as witnessed in the 
following story, vouched for by General Zurlinden, from 
whom I have also obtained some of the above facts: 

It would interest all men to know how the now famous 
cry, "Stand Up, You Dead!" was first shouted forth. On 



68 War Days in Brittany 

April 8th, 1915, Adjutant Pericard, acting lieutenant of 
the 95th Regiment of Infantry, found himself in a perilous 
position. A trench having been taken the day before by 
the 1st and 3rd Batallions was the object of a violent 
counter-attack, the occupants were withdrawing, and the 
trench on the point of being taken by the enemy. Lieu- 
tenant Pericard was in reserve, but seeing how badly 
things were going called for volunteers, and with his little 
band rushed to arrest the enemy. He succeeded in retak- 
ing the trench, but feeling himself abandoned, he looked 
back and saw only dead and wounded, not another man 
on his feet. It was then he shouted his famous war-cry: 
"Stand Up, You Dead!" 

Dinard, November 1st, 1916. 



A RED CROSS HOSPITAL 
IN BRITTANY 



A RED CROSS HOSPITAL 
IN BRITTANY 

I 

Within the walls of this cool, tranquil place 

Lie wounded men from Northern battlefields; 
With shattered limb, with wan and pain-streaked face, 

Safely they rest; they whom the Red Cross shields! 
The roar of gun, the shriek of bomb and shell, 

The shrapnel hissing through the awful din, 
Are silenced here. A nearby chapel bell 

Strikes the calm hours. Quietly within 
The restful rooms the men lift up their eyes, 
To that small crimson cross afloat in peaceful skies. 

II 

From rain-filled trench, from bare and blood-soaked 
ground, 

Where in low piles the dead and dying lie — 
(The mitrailleuse has swept each ridge and mound 

Where Frenchmen rushed to conquer or to die) 
They bring them to us — broken, crippled boys, 

White as the linen bands around the head. 
And some may live. To some life's hopes and joys 

Are growing dim — Unto the glorious dead 
Their souls depart. Ah! God will speed them well. 
These gallant men who for their country fell. 



[71 



72 War Days in Brittany 

III 

From the White Alps up to the gray North Sea, 

Along the Somme and Meuse the Army holds; 
Calm in the certitude of Victory — 

They see her shining on their banner s folds. 
These injured boys have helped to do this deed. 

Their strength and youth were gladly offered here, 
That their dear land might once again be freed 

From the black curse of war, and grief, and fear. 
When Peace returns, let their great sacrifice 
Remain forever holy in our eyes. 

August, 1916. 



THE CASTLE OF COMBOURG 




o 



THE CASTLE OF COMBOURG 



The September morning was crystal-clear. The old 
fortifications at St. Malo, violet in shadow, lay wrapped 
in sunlight as from the crest of the hill we turned for a 
farewell glimpse of Dinard and the sea, before turning 
eastward on our long proposed trip to some Brittany 
hospitals. 

Our motor was packed in every corner with hospital 
supplies — tins of ether, rolls of absorbent cotton, hun- 
dreds of compresses and bandages, surgical supplies and 
instruments, cigars, cigarettes, chocolate, hospital-shirts 
and slippers, sponges, socks — all we could think of, cap- 
able of mending the broken bodies or healing the spirits 
of those brave poilus we were to visit in various hospitals 
during the next few days. 

The motor looked top-heavy, with great hampers strap- 
ped on its roof, as we (my husband, the singer and I) 
squeezed ourselves in between the bulky supplies, but in 
these days of almost priceless tires and rare gasoline one 
must manage with little personal pretentions to comfort. 
The first place of call was the Chateau of Combourg. 
As we bowled along roads now much in need of repair 
after three years of forced neglect, we recalled something 
of its history. 

The vast pile, buried in its own forests, was built, before 
the Norman Conquest, of immense blocks of granite 
hewn from nearby quarries; its five great towers, with 

[75] 



76 War Days in Brittany 

deep slate roofs, ornamented with forged iron "grilles" 
and weathervanes, its massive keep, its crenelated walls 
and outlying bastions, have apparently withstood the 
vicissitudes of centuries. Wars, revolution, fire, siege, 
storms, have left it unharmed. As we approached, the 
castle loomed up above the surrounding groves, looking 
much as it must have appeared to the Crusaders as they 
left its doors for the Holy Land. 

We rolled through a sordid village lying at its base, 
and soon stopped before an iron gate in a high stone wall 
for the concierge to open, and then a lovely scene met our 
eyes. 

Great avenues of oaks and chestnuts stretched in all 
directions, interspersed with long stretches of greensward 
and clumps of bushes. It required slight imagination to 
see Robin Hood and his men, or catch a glimpse of them 
fleeting through the sun-wrapped distance — or hear their 
horns sounding in the forest. 

The young chatelaine was awaiting us at the head of 
a great flight of stone steps, 'Tescalier d'honneur," large 
and broad enough for a regiment to ascend. The draw- 
bridge and moat, formerly occupying this side, were re- 
moved by order of Cardinal Richelieu, who, fearing the 
belligerent spirit of the Brittany nobles, and determined 
to destroy their feudal privileges for all time, conceived 
the idea of turning their castle-fortresses into harmless 
country-houses, and they, themselves, into extravagant 
courtiers. 

For two and one-half years these walls have sheltered 




Interior of Castle — The Chatelaine and a Few of the Wounded 




Group in Front of Castle 



The Castle of Combourg 77 

wounded from the battlefields of Picardie and Lorraine, 
nursed back to health by the Comtesse who, as "infirmiere 
Majeure," does all the dressing of wounds herself — 50 
beds in all. She has three assistant nurses and a doctor, 
but all the expense of this private hospital is borne by the 
Comte and Comtesse de Durfort. No small item, when 
everything has doubled in price, and hospital supplies, 
as well as food, are necessarily difficult to obtain. The 
question of lighting and heating alone is a hard one. No 
coal to be found anywhere, so trees are sacrificed in the 
Park. Candles and kerosene lamps being the only way 
of lighting, these immense halls must be gloomy and 
depressing enough in the long dark afternoons of winter, 
with the wind howling around the towers and the rain 
lashing the casements. 

The great dining-room and salons (in feudal times the 
"Salle des Gardes") have been turned into dormitories, 
white cots stand in rows beneath the painted beams of 
the ceilings; frescoed knights, bishops and ladies gaze 
down from the lofty walls on the broken soldiers of today; 
hooded chimneys of stone, heavily carved with armorial 
bearings, still burn, in their black depths, logs from the 
neighboring forest. Through cross-barred windows, cut 
in eighteen feet of masonry, one catches glimpses of white 
and blue skies, of seas of verdant leaves, of sunlight glint- 
ing on yellow lichen roofs far below. A pale blue smoke 
drifts upward, the voices of children, the clang of forge, 
the lowing of cattle in the market place, sound faintly 
through the autumn air, and gazing downwards from this 



78 War Days in Brittany 

elevation, one realizes vaguely how great was the distance, 
socially and morally, separating in the middle ages the 
serf from his overlord! 

After a most excellent luncheon of chicken "en cas- 
serole," venison, fresh vegetables and salads, a pastry 
and some fine Burgandy (all furnished by the estate, 
except the wine), the host and hostess, the singer, my 
husband and I, climbed around the upper turrets, gazed 
down through the "Machiacoli" whence boiling oil was 
hurled on the besieger in the Dark Ages, scrambled 
through low stone arches, up corkscrew-stairs to the bed- 
room of the famous Comte de Chateaubriand, great- 
uncle of the present owner, and from whom she inherited 
the property. Here he spent his lonely childhood, full 
of dreams and fears; in one of his books, complaining of 
the bats circling and flapping outside his window, in the 
moonlight, around this white-washed room high up in 
this silent tower! What a dreary abode for an imaginative 
boy! 

Down the turning staircase, where an ancestral ghost 
with a wooden leg and accompanied by a spectral cat 
"walks" before any disaster comes to the family, we came 
to the Poet's Library, a circular room, lined from floor 
to ceiling with books, as well as many unbound manu- 
scripts. A ladder on runners can be pushed around to 
reach the higher rows. Here are many family relics; a 
comfortable oak armchair and table before the open fire- 
place, where Chateaubriand wrote many of his world- 
renowned books. 



The Castle ofCombourg 79 

On returning to one of the salons, we found some thirty- 
five wounded awaiting the little concert we had arranged 
for them. Some village notables, the mayor, the cure, the 
postmaster and a few elderly neighbors, were amongst 
them. 

The singer, Miss Marion Gregory, of New York, con- 
fided to me afterwards that she was so overcome, facing 
those poor wounded fellows, especially the blind with 
their sightless eyes turned towards her, that her voice 
seemed to die in her throat; but the singer was new to all 
the pain and sorrow, having only just come from "God's 
Country." She said she had faced many large audiences 
in America, but never with so many qualms. The soldiers, 
however, ignoring this, sat in blissful attention, enjoying 
every note of her lovely voice, and heartily applauding. 
The postmaster then recited some stirring French poetry, 
then, rising, we all sang the "Marseillaise." One poor 
blind boy, with tears streaming down, said to me: "Oh, 
Madame, I am so sad, I have no longer eyes to see to 
fight to avenge the wrongs of my beloved France." 

A "gouter" served in the dining-hall made us all very 
cheerful. Speeches were made, hands shaken, toasts 
drunk, in that excellent wine of Champagne to "la Vic- 
toire," and to the intimacy of France and the United 
States. 

The Comte and his beautiful wife, surrounded by their 
"blesses," bade us farewell at the foot of the "escalier 
d'honneur;" the castle behind them looming gray and 
forbidding against the evening sky. The sun, gilding the 



80 War Days in Brittany 

crests of the chestnuts and oaks and glinting on the tri- 
color, the Red Cross flag and the family banner hanging 
limply in the lambent air, sent its flood of red over the 
little group. 

As we waved goodbye, we felt how intimately the past 
and present are related. How great traditions never die, 
but repeat themselves in national life from generation to 
generation. The high caring for the humble, the rich for 
the poor. How love of country wipes out all distinctions 
of caste, making France what she is today, the world's 
example of sacrifice, devotion and patriotism. 

September, 1916. 



A BELGIAN ROMANCE 




tfrruZz. aU. ^/ : 



A BELGIAN ROMANCE 



She was a slender, graceful creature; tall, blond, highbred; 
so young and so good-looking, one wondered how she was 
able to escape from Belgium without unheard-of diffi- 
culties from those brutes of Germans; but here she was, 
that cold February night, coming to Val Fleuri with a 
pitiful handful of luggage, a great courage, and soul- 
racking remembrances. 

A mutual friend had months ago told me of her tragic 
experiences and her keen desire to escape from the Ger- 
man tyranny in Belgium, so we originated a scheme 
(through a Belgian consul in Switzerland) by which she 
was to travel via Germany to Switzerland, thence to 
France where she would sign on as a regular Red Cross 
nurse. 

Poor girl! Her life in Namur had been so tragic, it 
was extraordinary she had the courage to undertake 
alone a long journey, in the depth of winter, through 
enemy country, going voluntarily into exile for an indefi- 
nite period, with no one to turn to in case of trouble or 
sickness, entirely dependent on her meager Red Cross 
pay, frcs 2.50 (50 cents) a day — board and lodging alone 
being provided by the hospital. 

She remained a number of months in Val Fleuri as our 
guest, and little by little, as her reserve wore off, the tale 
of the actual horror of her life under the German yoke 
came out, and I was able to understand the motive which 

[83] 



84 War Days in Brittany 

drove her, a beautiful girl of twenty-seven, into France, 
facing an unknown future and a hard present, rather than 
remain a day longer than was necessary under German rule. 

The only daughter of a rich and indulgent widow, until 
the fatal summer of 1914, she had lived a luxurious idle 
life; petted by society in Belgium for her charm and her 
beauty; welcomed at house parties and balls; sought for 
cotillions, dinners, race-meetings; with all that wealth 
and rank in the old nobility could offer to a girl of her 
position, the sudden transition to the horrors of German 
invasion and occupation was terrific. 

When the war broke out in 1914, her mother and she 
were entertaining a large house-party of fashionable 
young people in their chateau, some miles out from Namur. 
The sudden crashing of guns broke in upon their country 
pleasures, their guests fled, the shells boomed over the 
park and buildings, old friends advised them, two defense- 
less women, to abandon the chateau and take refuge in 
their large town house at Namur. 

Their hearts were heavy with grief and foreboding, that 
August morning, when they looked their last on their 
ancestral home ; its huge towers and wide terraces framed 
in great oaks and chestnuts, sleeping tranquilly beneath a 
radiant blue sky. Ten days later their home had been 
gutted from tower to basement, flames had destroyed 
their furniture, pictures, family heirlooms, household 
treasures — all scattered, burnt or carried off by the 
Huns — and, crowning insult, German dead buried in 
the rose-gardens beneath the marble terrace.* 

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A Belgian Romance 85 

None of us in America have had our homes pillaged 
or destroyed, so it is hard to realize the heart-anguish of 
looking on, helpless, while the destruction of all one holds 
sacred is consummated; so these two lonely women 
passed many gloomy hours in the town house at 
Namur where they immediately installed a Red Cross 
hospital. 

The shells boomed night and day over the town; every 
hour my young friend passed through the whole building, 
with her servants, carrying water, wet blankets and sticks 
to beat out any possible fire; six or seven poor families 
from the neighbors had taken refuge in their great house, 
and one could not turn them away to face the fire and 
bullets in the streets, so they camped out in the kitchen 
and offices, hall- ways and cellars. The Louis XVI ball- 
room, with its magnificent frescoes and paneled walls, 
was turned into a temporary hospital, my young friend 
in charge. 

Fortunately, before the war, she had, like many women 
of rank in Belgium, taken a course in surgical nursing, 
and, having passed her examination, was fully qualified 
to take charge of the hospital. The wounded during the 
siege were brought in from the streets, their blood stain- 
ing the marble steps of the grand escalier, and lying in 
pools on the inlaid floors of the ball room. A ghastly 
reminder for all time of that August, 1914! For four 
months they fed, sheltered and protected 36 people, not 
counting the wounded. The Red Cross flag over the 
great portes-cocheres did not prevent the German soldiers 



86 War Days in Brittany 

from firing at any imprudent person who might show 
themselves at the windows after dark. 

The health of the widow, never robust, gave away 
under these misfortunes, and early in December, 1914, 
the poor girl was left alone to face her difficulties. Her 
country destroyed, her mother dead, the town house a 
hospital, and German officers quartered in the two wings 
looking on the court. Not a safe or pleasant home for a 
defenseless girl. Friends of her parents advised her leav- 
ing for France, but still she hesitated to leave what little 
remained of her previous happiness to seek an unknown 
future in a strange land, and only a dangerous and un- 
pleasant incident finally decided her to take this hazard- 
ous step. 

In December, curious to see the damage done by the 
Huns, she went with a girl friend to visit the town of 
Dinant, that spot of infamous memory, where the boches 
shot down civilians — men, women and children — like 
dogs, and dragged their families out to see their execution. 
On the tram, the girls fell into conversation with a man 
who, a native of Dinant, had nearly been massacred on 
that fearful day in August. He said he had been lined 
up with the other victims and the order given. Shots 
were poured into the helpless crowd. He owed his escape 
to the fact that he was in the second line and was short, 
the man in front being a tall noble, who turned out to 
be a cousin of my Yolande. He showed the girls a 
sharp, white line along the top of his head, where the 
bullet had passed. He fell beneath the cousin of my friend, 



A Belgian Romance 87 

who, being a large, heavy man, completely covered him. 
During the night the boches came back often and fired 
into the dark mass, did they see the slightest movement. 
All during the night the man talked in undertones to the 
wounded noble, who told him to be still until dawn, when 
they might hope to escape in the morning mists by swim- 
ming the Meuse. 

About 3:30 a. m., the traveler spoke to the noble, and, 
getting no reply, very slowly and carefully moved his 
hand up to where he thought the head was. The body 
had been growing heavier and heavier and he had been 
saturated with a wet substance. What was his horror to 
find the head had been shot away in the last volley! He 
waited, silent as the dead about him, until the morning 
mists crept up from the river, then wriggled out from the 
mass of dead, and effected his escape by creeping down 
the bank and swimming the Meuse in the early dawn 
before the sun rose. My poor Yolande was deeply affected 
by this recital. She had known of the murder of her 
relative, but none of the details. On reaching Dinant, 
she visited the devastated part of the town, where some 
poor wretched women sought shelter under their broken 
roofs, having lost everything, and not knowing where 
their families were scattered, having nowhere else to go, 
they came back like homeless cats, nothing but broken 
walls, shattered roofs and piles of plaster, bricks, charred 
wood, and perhaps a chimney to show what had once 
been their homes; but they came back and poked among 
the rubbish with sticks, hoping to find a spoon or cooking 



88 War Days in Brittany 

utensil ; many holding monkey-like babies to their starved 
breasts, all that remained to them of their previous 
families. 

Sitting thus, holding their starving children to their 
bosoms, their vacant faces and shrivelled forms outlined 
under the roofless doorways; staring at space, they 
presented a truly desolate picture. My friend spoke to 
them and tried to awaken and cheer them, but it was 
useless, they were too far gone in misery to even under- 
stand. 

This horrible spectacle of misery, combined with the 
story of her relative's death, raised such hatred in her 
heart that, as she said, she must have shown too plainly 
what she felt, for, while passing in front of a cafe where 
some German officers were singing and feasting, she sud- 
denly felt a hand on her shoulder and she and her friend 
were arrested and taken to the guardhouse. When she 
demanded why they had been arrested the sergeant said: 
"because she had cast such a look of hatred at the officers 
in the cafe!" ("Un regard de hain.") 

For five hours they were left sitting in the guard-room, 
while soldiers came in and tried to laugh and talk to them. 
Finally the officer who had them arrested came in and 
tried to "jolly" them. When all his efforts were met with 
a frigid silence, he went to the phone. Fortunately for 
Yolande, as she understood his German orders, she 
immediately claimed her release as a Red Cross nurse. 
He would not listen at first, but an insistant appeal to the 
Military Governor on her part secured their freedom, and 



A Belgian Romance 89 

the two girls were turned out at two o'clock in the morn- 
ing in the soldier-infested streets of Dinant; and, remem- 
ber, this was at the height of the German invasion of 
Belgium, when the whole country lay at their mercy. 
Had she not understood German, it is doubtful if the girls 
would ever have been seen again ! 

How she ever got back to Namur she never quite 
remembered, but this experience determined her to leave. 
After much wire-pulling and family influence, she obtained 
her passports, and, in company of a young wife and three 
small children, they made their way across Germany to 
Switzerland. Her perfect German accent and blond 
appearance helped them along, but when at last they 
crossed the frontier their hearts were too heavy for talk. 
They were safe, but at what a sacrifice. 

Safely arrived in Dinard, she immediately signed on 
"for the war," and became one of the most valuable and 
beloved nurses. She was so gentle and gracious, but still 
so firm and competent, she soon was given charge of a 
whole floor (65 men of all kinds and descriptions). I 
looked at her often in amazement. How that slender 
young woman could make those rough men obey her! 
She never raised her voice or lost her temper in all the 
eighteen months she was in Dinard. I never saw her 
peeved, or snappy, or cross. 

At that time I used to go every morning, from 9 to 12, 
to make a little "extra food" or canteen for the more 
dangerously wounded, I had invited a friend, the Mar- 
quise de T (also a Belgian) , to help me. We had a little 



90 War Days in Brittany 

rolling table piled high with jam, bread and butter, 
soup, and a rum punch I made from Mellin's food, milk 
and eggs and rum, which we took to the different wounded. 
The men were very fond of this punch, but only those who 
were "bed cases" could have it, and then only a glass 
apiece. 

Amongst others, there was a huge Senegalais, an in- 
terne for some months, who had had a number of small 
operations and who, just as he was getting better, would 
always go out and get drunk and then was laid up again, 
a perpetual blesse. One day, apparently, the Marquise 
and I were innocently distributing our little dejeuner, 
when this huge creature hobbled up, demanding some 
"Ponche." We told him it was strictly forbidden that day. 
He gave a wild bellow and rushed at us. I shall never 
forget that great animal, his face as black as ink, with 
flashing, angry eyes, his great red mouth open and yelling 
incomprehensible gibberish at us, flinging himself along 
on crutches, with terrific speed, he seemed the personifica- 
tion of Darkest Africa. 

We fled down the corridor pursued by the negro, our 
little table rattling along, cups, saucers and tartines 
bounding out as we ran, the precious rum punch slopping 
over at every step, and that great bellowing Senegalais 
pounding along behind, flinging everything that came 
to hand at us, even to his slippers, which he finally 
whipped off as he saw us dash around the corner. Sud- 
denly a door opened and Yolande appeared. What she 
said to the monster or how she appeased him I don't know, 



A Belgian Romance 91 

but after a while he went grumbling and growling back 
to his room. The other soldiers said, "Vous Vavez echappe 
belle c'est un mauvais caractere" (You got off easily, 
he has a nasty character.) 

For over two years, Yolande staid on, reaping golden 
opinions on all sides; her constant devotion to the wounded 
all day and many nights, easing their suffering, comfort- 
ing, cheering, even in the last sad hours staying with 
them through the Valley of the Shadow, and going to 
the funeral and the grave! I often wondered how she 
stood the strain, the long tedious hours, the poor food, 
the cold and discomfort, the anxiety of the operations, 
and then, added to all these, the uncertainty of the 
future, the loneliness of exile, and the then black outlook 
for Belgium! 

A year ago happier times came for the dear girl. For a 
number of years she had been engaged to a distinguished 
officer in the Belgian diplomatic service, and last Decem- 
ber he was able to obtain leave for three months, and 
came to carry his bride off to a far-away, sunny country. 

I like to think of her, happily married to the man she 
has loved so long, in a charming house of her own amidst 
palms, hibiscus and tropical foliage, far-away from all the 
gloom and tragedy of her war-stricken country. May 
all happiness and wealth and peace be hers in this new 
life! She deserves them all. 

December, 1917. 



THE VOW 



(Copy) 

£* innrnal 

Paris, 30 Mars, 1917. 
Madame : 

J'ai lu et hautement appr^cie* la belle 
traduction que vous avez faite de mon 
po6me et je vous remercie de votre pens£e 
de la faire connaftre dans votre pays. 

Autant d'Americains fraternels partagent 
notre indignation francaise et qui s'unis si 
reellement d la cause de la justice et du 
droit. 

Daigniez agrder, Madame, avec tous mes 
remerciements, mes hommages respectueux. 

Henri de Regnier. 



THE VOW 

I 

I swear to keep forever in my heart 

This sacred Hate, until the final beat. 
This holy venom will become a part 

Of every drop which forms its living heat. 
Forever graven on my sombre face 

A tragic furrow on my mournful brow. 
This outrage leaves its utmost loathly trace 

Upon my mind and soul, Forever, Now. 

II 

My ruined fields, my cities sunk in flame, 

My murdered hostages, my fallen sons, 
My wounded babes, the nameless deeds of shame 

Upon my women, helpless, fore the Huns, 
I swear I shall avenge! My justice and my right 

Shall conquer, or my last red blood I shed. 
I, France, austere and blazing in my might 

Shout forth this message to my valiant dead. 

Ill 

This Holy vow of wrath, this oath of hate, 

Before high Heaven solemnly I swear, 
Before the waters of the Marne and Aisne, 

Still crimson with French blood, I consecrate 
Myself. Oh, Rheims sublime! Thou torch whose glare, 

Still shows the sacred ruins of thy fane, 
Burning and crumbling on the horizon, 

Hear, thou, my vow of vengeance on the Hun! 

Henri de Regnier. 

1917, Translated by Elsie Deming Jarves. 

[95] 



WHAT FRENCHWOMEN ARE DOING 
IN WAR TIME 



EMPRUNKIDEFENSE NATIONALE 







PUBUE SOUS LES AUSPICES DE LA FEDERATION NATIONALE DE LA MUTUALITE FRANCAISE 

QUI FAIT APPEL A TOUS LES TRAVAILLEURS. ATOUS LES PREVOY/^NTS. ATOUS LES PATRIOTES 

POUR LA LIBERATION DUTERRITOIRE ET LA VICTOIRE FINALE. 



WHAT FRENCHWOMEN ARE DOING 
IN WAR TIME 

With the full blast of war sweeping over this old Conti- 
nent, with the young manhood of France forming a wall 
of steel between us and the enemy who would annihilate, 
with the prospect of this tragedy continuing for an in- 
definite period, each Frenchwoman, safe behind the liv- 
ing barrier, asks herself what she can do to help. How 
to use her individual capacities to the best advantage for 
the sustenance and comfort of those dear ones — the son 
or grandson in the trenches, the husband or brother at 
the front, the children and the old folk left behind in 
her care. 

As one looks abroad over this beautiful country, seeing 
what she is accomplishing, one is inspired with a sincere 
and fervent admiration for her devotion, self-sacrifice 
and patriotism. 

These noble qualities are not restricted to one class, 
but are universal in all ranks; from the peasant to the 
comtesse, from the little working girl to banker's wife; 
dressmakers, actresses, school-teachers, shopkeepers, 
nuns, the erstwhile rich and idle, as well as the wage- 
gainer, all feel the same enthusiasm; the same spirit of 
courage and endurance fills their souls; the pressing desire 
to "soul-ager" (help) the sorrow and privation brought 
on by this war of wars. 

All through the summer and autumn the women have 
worked manfully in the fields. I use this word advisedly. 

[99] 



100 War Days in Brittany 

The physical strength to gather the wheat, cut the hay, 
garner the fruit and vegetables, care for the cattle, toiling 
every day and all day to replace the men at the front, 
shows what healthy living for generations will do. 

I have seen them down on the beach raking up the 
heavy piles of sea-weed, pitching it on the high carts 
and hauling it back to their farms, sometimes miles away, 
as fertilizer for the soil. 

Strong, broad women these, woolen skirts tucked up 
high above their thick ankles, muslin coiffes flapping in 
the stinging wind blowing in from the channel, broad 
faces and muscular arms, red from exertion; very often 
even, the Grandma tosses a load of sea-weed on her pitch- 
fork to the granddaughter, standing high upon the soggy 
mass in the two-wheeled cart. I have seen them working 
at the cider mill in the farmyard; ploughing the fields for 
the winter wheat; driving carts piled with farm products 
to the markets. A woman and a tiny donkey being about 
the only means of transport left now, since the horses and 
men have gone to the war. 

The old men and women, who might confidently look 
forward to a comfortable seat by the open hearth, are out 
in the fields in all weathers, forgotten, the rheumatic 
joints, the bronchitis and the colds; the wind is piercing, 
rain falls almost every day in Brittany, but warm gar- 
ments, and boots lined with straw keep out the cold, and 
the cattle must be herded; someone must cut and trim 
the hedges and trees; collect the apples and cabbages; 
potatoes and turnips must be dug Many are the little 



Frenchwomen in War Time 101 

gifts of knitted socks and jerseys, of passemontagnes 
(hoods) sent to the "Poilu" at the front, for these women 
are never idle. In the long, dark evenings by the open 
fire, with only its light and a candle to brighten the dark 
interior, knitting needles glisten and click, and thoughts 
roam afar to the trenches, where, behind the barbed- wire 
and fortifications, "the man" is watching each day. 

Railroad canteens are another war work for the soldiers 
going to, and coming back from the front. Here they can 
get a warm drink and food — tea, coffee, milk, cocoa, good 
bread and meat, etc. — served by the ladies of the French 
Red Cross, who also climb into the trains, passing from 
carriage to carriage, shaking their little tin boxes for sous 
or francs; the stations have, as well, a Red Cross dressing 
station, where wounds are washed and rebandaged, a 
bed for a weary body, and a quiet hour are provided free 
of all charge. They are constantly used, I can tell you. 

In thousands of hospitals all over France, the Red 
Cross nurses are working with unexampled devotion. No 
task is too menial for them, no work too repulsive; their 
only thought is to relieve the suffering of the poor crea- 
tures brought to them. The men repay them well by quick 
obedience, and openly-expressed gratitude. It is a touch- 
ing sight to go down a hospital ward lined with beds, and 
see these chaps follow gratefully with boyish eyes, the 
little white-robed figure, which represents so much to 
them of well-being and gentle care. If one stops to inquire 
about their health, always a cheery answer, "Ca va bien 
aujour d'hui, Madame (It goes well today, Madame);" 



102 War Days in Brittany 

no matter how much they suffer, or what acute agony 
they may be undergoing, they will not admit it. 

I know one boy of nineteen, a volunteer, twice wounded, 
who was told by the doctor, while dressing his wound for 
the first time after his third operation, "Scream, my boy, 
scream, if it does you good, it will help." "No, doctor," 
he replied, "I prefer to whistle." So while the doctor 
opened the wound and cleaned the bone, he whistled 
il Nous les aurons (We'll get 'em)" — the latest song from 
the trenches. 

Many women who would gladly work in the hospitals 
are prevented by other duties. They have their homes and 
children to look after, or old people or invalids dependent 
on them, or also they must tend the shops in their hus- 
bands' absence, or run the auberge or hotel, or work in 
the factories, but each one does something on the side 
for the "Union sacree." It may not be more than a pair 
of knitted socks sent weekly to the trenches, or a cushion 
made of snipped-up cotton rags, cut fine and close, or a 
package of tobacco bought by carefully saved sous. From 
this universal wish have been created many good and 
useful works. During a recent visit to Paris I was im- 
pressed by the number of charities Frenchwomen 
have established and keep in fine running order. Let me 
mention a few: 

1. Oeuvre des Blesses au Travail (work of wounded 
soldiers). 

2. Oeuvre du Soldat dans la Tranchee (fund for the 
soldier in the trenches — send warm clothing). 



. 




Frenchwomen in War Time 103 

3. For sending food and clothing to the French 
Prisoners in Germany. 

4. The "Quinze Vingt" the government establish- 
ment for teaching the permanently blind a trade. 

5. The Duchesse d'Uzes' organization for sending 
clothing and money to the soldiers from the invaded dis- 
tricts; men who have no news from their families or rela- 
tions since the German invasion. 

6. Soup kitchens — good, wholesome meals provided 
for ten cents. There are a number scattered over Paris, 
frequented by men and women of good positions before 
the war. Old artists and musicians out of work, profes- 
sors who have lost their jobs, refugees from Lille, Courtrai 
and the invaded provinces, widows and girls with no 
means, little dressmakers and milliners without custom 
— a sad patient crowd who come silently and humbly to 
eat the bitter bread of charity. One group of ladies at 
the Hotel Mercedes (placed at their disposal) provides 
four hundred meals daily. 

L'Oeuvre du Blesse au Travail (objects made by wounded 
soldiers) are showing in handsomely arranged shops, 
articles made by the men as they lie wounded in their 
beds. These articles consist chiefly of baskets of finely 
plaited straw, some artistically colored and of charming 
designs; others made by clumsier hands, crude but 
interesting — lace mats of plaited ribbon; string bags of 
macrame work; penholders and pencils, fashioned from 
spent cartridges. Rings made from the aluminum tips of 
exploded German shells picked up in the French trenches 



104 War Days in Brittany 

— these are very cunningly made and are often very hand- 
some in design and execution. Every man, woman and 
child wants one of these rings, but as their only value is 
being "genuine/' i. e., made in the trenches by a soldier, from 
the real shell tip, there are naturally not enough to go 
'round. 

Flowers made out of bread, tinted and modeled to an 
exact imitation of Dresden flowers, stand in little gilt 
baskets, also made by the soldier. Dolls as Red Cross 
nurses, soldiers, doll furniture and houses, boxes, baskets, 
no end of tempting little things are displayed and sold 
by the ladies of the committee, who guarantee the genuine- 
ness of each object. 

Then there is the "Journee," or a day is chosen with 
the approval of the government, committees are formed 
in all the cities, towns, and villages of France. Bands of 
young girls and children start out early to sell flags or 
boutonnieres or rosettes, on the steps of the churches, 
at the railroad station, in the public squares and streets, 
holding their little pincushions stuck with flags, or scraps 
of ribbon, with a sealed tin box for coins. Thus, enormous 
sums are collected for the various war works, and every 
one, no matter how poor or humble, can give his offering. 

Besides these charities, innumerable "Ouvroirs" exist 
in every city. Sewing-rooms, where poor women are paid 
(and fed) to make shirts, chemises, belly-bands, socks, 
pyjamas, etc., and everyone is thus helped through the 
long, hard winter. 

Women are taking men's places all over France. Women 



Frenchwomen in War Time 105 

are in the munition factories, in the government post- 
office and telegraph service, as tramway conductors, as 
metro ticket collectors — places they never dreamed of 
filling before the war, for the Frenchwoman is essentially 
a home-body, her "interieur" (home) being dearer to her 
than all else; to take these masculine occupations is 
especially hard. 

The great dressmakers of the Rue de la Paix, the Rue 
de Rivoli, and the Place Vendome are doing their share, 
too. One floor is usually devoted to some charitable pur- 
pose, either an "Ouvroir," or a convalescent home, etc.; 
and that the little "midinette" (apprentice) may feel 
that she, too, is working for France, a work has been 
started called "la marraine" (the godmother). Through 
proper channels, any woman or girl can be put in com- 
munication with some lonely soldier in the trenches. She 
writes him long, encouraging letters. She keeps up his 
spirits by letting him know someone is thinking of him. 
When, by strictest economy, she can scrape a few sous 
together, she buys him a ten-cent packet of tobacco, or a 
few postal cards, or a pencil, and back in due time comes 
a soiled card, written in pencil, telling her the news of the 
trenches, how they will soon throw the "sales boches" 
out of France, and promising to spend many a happy hour 
with his "marraine" if he is lucky enough to escape the 
German bullets. 



PRISONERS AND AMBULANCES 



PRISONERS AND AMBULANCES 



So many friends have asked me to tell them about our 
life here in Brittany, that I have selected a few facts, hoping 
that these little wavelets, on the ocean of war-literature 
at present inundating the country, may prove of interest. 

Let me first tell the story of an American girl of whom 
we are all very proud — a girl whose courage and devo- 
tion has won her the Croix de Guerre and the Medaille 
d'or des Epidemes. 

The Vicontesse de la Mettrie, daughter of the late 
Comte Amedee de Gasquet — James of New Orleans and 
Dinard — and grand-daughter of the late Colonel George 
Watson Pratt, of Albany, has lived in Dinard all her 
life. On the 18th of August, 1914, she offered her services 
as a nurse, and since that date has been constantly on 
duty, never sparing herself in her devotion to her wounded. 

I cannot do better than translate from the order of 
the day, read at the army headquarters, the following 
citation : 

"The Vicontesse Henri de la Mettrie, whose husband 
went to the front early in August, 1914, became hospital- 
nurse in the military hospitals, first at Rennes, and after- 
wards at the front on the Somme, and on the Aisne, these 
last places since 1916. She has just become the object 
of highly laudatory 'citation' in general orders of the 
army for the 18th of February, 1918, in the following 
terms: 'Has shown, during the bombardment of the 

[109] 



110 War Days in Brittany 

ambulance of , the utmost courage, devotion and 

sang froid. On the 30th of November, 1917, her ambulance 
was subjected to a prolonged bombardment and, although 
slightly wounded herself from bursting shell, she imme- 
diately rescued two dangerously injured stretcher bearers, 
who fell at her side. She refused to seek shelter and showed 
the greatest courage throughout all danger.' 

"The Croix de Guerre is accorded with this citation. 
Madame de la Mettrie has further earned the gratitude 
of her compatriots by giving her blood, by infusion, to 
save the life of one of her wounded men (dying in her 
hospital at the front) and she had the joy of knowing she 
had saved his life." Let me add in passing, that, before the 
war, the Vicontesse de la Mettrie was a lively, gay young 
woman of fashion, fond of automobiling, hunting, travel- 
ing and dancing. The contrast of these carefree days be- 
fore the war when young, rich and lovely, with a devoted 
husband and a loving family about her, she could rea- 
sonably look forward to every happiness — and the present 
tragic months under the German guns must be at times 
overwhelming. 

Her last posts have been in such dangerous zones, often 
under bombardment night and day, that, before the war- 
office allowed her to go, she was obliged to sign three 
papers, stating, respectively: First — that she had no 
children or parents dependent on her; second — that she 
fully realized the danger, and went at her own risk and 
peril; third — that her husband knew when and where she 
was going, and fully gave his consent. 



Prisoners and Ambulances 111 

Those people in America who think war-nursing con- 
sists of attending to nice, clean, interesting young men in 
big, airy, spotless wards, with sunshine pouring in at the 
open windows, flowers on a table near the bed, and pretty 
Red Cross nurses serving wine, jellies and afternoon tea, 
would be rather surprised to look in upon these ambulance- 
stations at the front, behind the first dressing stations. 

Imagine a shelltorn, gunswept desert; low, wooden en- 
campments partitioned off into long rooms, full to over- 
flowing with wounded; ankle-deep mud separating the dif- 
ferent sheds; appalling food; no possibility of baths or even 
elementary cleanliness; no comfort of any kind. For 
sleeping quarters each nurse has a cubicle 5 feet by 9 feet, 
a cot, a chair, a washbasin on a box, and a small trunk for 
her clothes. Under the cot is a hole, long and large and 
deep enough for a person to lie in, into which they pop 
when the bombardment alarm is given. The damp cold 
is intense in these desolated regions, the work equally so. 
Always on the alert for gas attacks or shells, always ready, 
night and day, for the arrival of freshly wounded from the 
trenches, only a few yards away, operations often, deaths 
often, fatigue always, dirt, stenches, vermin, the sacrifice 
of youth, good looks and ease — these are some of the 
demands that a military nurse under army orders must 
consider all in a day's work. 

The Croix de Guerre is the highest decoration given by 
the French Government for deeds of valor or endurance 
under fire, and many are the sons of France who wear it 
on their blue tunics. That it also gleams on the uniforms 



112 War Days in Brittany 

of some of her daughters, shows how unfailing is the hero- 
ism and patriotism inspiring alike the men and women of 
France. 

All these four long, weary years this has been the lot of 
the French. 

Behind the lines reigns a constant anxiety. In the 
cities, in the villages, in the lonely farms, everywhere, the 
homes are empty of their men-folk. Millions of families 
living in fear of what crushing news the next hours may 
bring. Lucky those households whose men are still in 
the fighting line. 

A slight idea of the degradation and misery endured in 
the German prison camps may be gathered from a letter 
received from the brother of one of my maids. He is now 
at Leysin, in Switzerland, trying to regain his health and 
recover his eyesight. At times he is almost blind, the 
result of the typhus. If he loses it completely, he will in- 
deed be a helpless burden to his family, as he is a cabinet- 
maker by trade. His father and mother are humble folk 
who have brought up their nine children honestly and 
well, educating them, giving each a good trade, and, before 
the war, looking forward themselves to a well-earned rest 
in their old age. Now this large family is completely 
ruined and broken up. This eldest son almost blind, the 
second son disappeared since 1914 in the holacust of the 
war, the third son fighting in Italy. Next month the 
fourth boy, barely eighteen, joins the colors. 

The poor old father, struck down by paralysis, has been 
slowly dying for months. The rest of the family, the old 



Prisoners and Ambulances 113 

mother, four small children and a young girl, are entirely- 
dependent on the wages of my maid, except for 110 francs 
($23) a month, given as allowance by the French Govern- 
ment to those whose men are fighting. The old mother 
has a patch of ground where she grows a few vegetables. 
One boy of fourteen receives a few francs as electrician 
(the only wage earner at home). Out of her wages of 
$20.60 a month, my good Marie has helped her family, 
bought clothes and medicines for the sick father and the 
children, and managed to send twice a month, for the last 
three and one-half years, a box to the prisoner brother. 
Naturally, all her savings are gone. This is typical of 
thousands of families all over France — it is not a hard-luck 
story. 

These monthly boxes sent to the prisoners usually con- 
tain a half pound of coffee, costing 28 cents; a quarter 
pound of sugar, costing 5 cents; one-half pound of choco- 
late, costing 25 cents; one-half pound of rice, costing 18 
cents; one-half pound of butter, costing 50 cents; one-half 
pound of figs, costing 14 cents; one box of sardines, costing 
42 cents; one jar of jam, costing 25 cents; one can of con- 
densed milk, costing 55 cents; one box of dates, costing 35 
cents; one piece of soap, costing 20 cents; two packages of 
cigarettes, costing 25 cents; one pair of wool socks; one 
cotton shirt; packing, costing 50 cents; one box of meat 
and beans, costing 39 cents. 

The letter of Marie's brother is as follows : 
"Madame permits me to address to her my sincere 
thanks for the money which allows me to purchase some 



114 War Days in Brittany 

strengthening food, which my poor state of health so 
greatly demands. 

"Since my arrival in Switzerland, I asked no further 
help from my sister nor my family, who, as Madame 
knows, have struggled against such great difficulties, due 
to present conditions. How much they have voluntarily 
borne during my stay in Germany, when it was so urgent ! 
It is absolutely certain that if I am still in this world it is 
to thanks of the solicitude of my sister and of my family, 
who deprived themselves daily in order to send me food. 

"Being wounded the 29th of August, 1914, and made 
prisoner, I dragged about the hospital for five and one- 
half months. The 15th of February, 1915, I was sent to 
the camp at Cassel at the very moment of the outbreak 
of typhus, which appeared the 29th of February. I would 
not know how to describe to you, Madame, the scenes of 
horror which I witnessed at that time. I would have to 
write a book, even then I would lack words to give you 
the smallest conception of all the great misery whose 
ghastly impression will remain forever engraved in my soul. 

"After nursing a large number of my comrades, at- 
tempting by my goodwill to make up for my inexperience, 
my own turn came. I was struck low by this appalling 
sickness the 19th of April, 1915. After a few days in the 
hospital I conquered this awful illness, but in what a state. 
I could not walk but with the aid of crutches. I was a 
human rag. The care which I ought to have had was 
substituted by a complete neglect on the part of the 
authorities, even the most ordinary and needful precau- 
tions were denied me. 

"For the following two months I lay on the floor, only a 
threadbare blanket for covering. It is useless, Madame, 
to recite to you the treatment of utmost rigor to which I 
was subjected. It was the same for all of us. Alas, how 
many unfortunates have died of it! Two thousand five 



Prisoners and Ambulances 115 

hundred are the official figures recognized by the German 
authorities in our hospital. 

"They will have to answer before the tribunal of human- 
ity for this horror added to so many others of which they 
are guilty. They are entirely responsible, for they never 
made the slightest effort to prevent contagion, or to atten- 
uate, in any way, the hideous results. Quite the contrary! 
They remained inert, rejoicing in the work of desolation 
passing before their eyes. Their cynical ferocity per- 
mitted the German general commanding our camp to ex- 
plain in the presence of these dying prisoners : 'I make war 
in my own way.' He made us feel, we unfortunate mori- 
bunds, that if we were left without the most elementary 
care of nursing, abandoned in a most tragic state, it was 
entirely due to him, the German general commanding. 

"After a long time, the Red Cross, horrified by the 
ravages caused by this scourge, and by the indifference 
of the German authorities, obtained after great difficulty, 
the privilege of sending some French doctors to our camp 
at Cassel. These devoted men did their whole duty, more 
than their duty, no matter how trying and disheartening. 
There, where the deepest despair reigned, their arrival 
gave us a gleam of hope. By their sublime abnegation 
and absolute devotion, they succeeded in stamping out 
this pest; alas, by the sacrifice of their lives. Two of our 
dear doctors thus paid the debt, but to those who saw them 
at their work — courageous, cheering, consoling their poor 
comrades, prey to this vile disease, the remem- 
brance of them will remain forever vivid and holy — these 
two heroes. 

"I have witnessed the most horrible misery, but I 
would do wrong to let you think I was the greatest suf- 
ferer. Whoever has been prisoner in Germany has seen 
the same spectacle, the acts of refined cruelty one hoped 
had disappeared forever from the world. I enclose two 



116 War Days in Brittany 

photos, which will give you some idea of the actual con- 
ditions endured by so many thousand unfortunates fallen 
into German hands. One shows the interior of a shed 
where the prisoners are crowded, a bed of infection for all 
kinds of diseases. The other shows the punishment 
meted out for the merest peccadillo. They need no 
comment. 

"I cannot close this recital of misery without a word, 
which I judge very necessary, about this unhappy life, 
so bravely supported by so many thousands of unfor- 
tunates. What would have become of us, but for such 
kind souls as you? How many of my wretched compan- 
ions have only been sustained morally and physically, 
through these days of trial, by the regular arrival of 
parcels sent by kind unknown friends! 

"If these charitable people could hear half of the ex- 
pressions of gratitude, and see the pleasure caused by 
these shipments, they would assuredly feel rewarded. I 
want you to know this, as I feel it will especially interest 
you. Your kindness towards me proves it. Thanks from 
me and thanks from them. 

"I long to return to France. I await with impatience 
the day of expatriation, which will permit me to see again 
my old parents, my family, and to embrace once more my 
little girls — poor darlings, deprived so early of my affection 
and care. But I am resigned to wait, and to re-establish 
here in Switzerland my health, so necessary after this 
war. I know, Madame, you have given things to my 
little ones; from me many thanks. 

" Receive, Madame, my sincerest salutations and the 
assurance of my profound gratitude. 

"Your devoted, 

"F. F. 

"Interne Francais. 
"Hotel du Chamessaire, Leysin, Suisse." 




French Wounded Huddled in Shed in German Prison 




Refined Cruelty as Practiced on French Officer in German Prison 
for Some Slight Infraction of Rules 



Prisoners and Ambulances 117 

With this authentic picture before us, shall we not do 
well, we Americans, to realize what our own boys will 
have to face, should they fall into German hands? 

Dinard has recently been obliged to open her doors to 
one thousand homeless children from Nancy. That his- 
torical and beautiful old town in Lorraine is no longer a 
safe place for kiddies. Twelve thousand have been sent 
here to Brittany, escorted by American Red Cross doctors 
and American nurses, and their school-masters and mis- 
tresses. Poor little mites, they look white and frightened 
and suppressed, but they must be relieved to feel they 
can run about the beach without the fear of bombs — that 
terror, night and day, which for so many months has 
haunted them. 

Now the soft lapping of the waves replaces the roar of 
cannon; the green fields of Brittany, the crumbling build- 
ings of their old home; but their little hearts are heavy, 
many a baby is crying for "maman" when bed-time 
comes. Their wan cheeks are growing rosy in the 
breezes from the Atlantic. Good butter, milk, eggs and 
peaceful sunny days, freedom from the fear of bombard- 
ment, are building up their fragile little bodies, and the 
strained look is leaving their eyes, and they are becoming 
normal children again. 

We are constantly suffering from the spy fever. Every 
once in a while it breaks out in a virulent form. Every- 
one looks askance at his neighbor. The most absurd 
rumors circulate through the whole community, and the 
world and his wife are in a feverish state of exasperation, 



118 War Days in Brittany 

each one offering excellent advice as to the suppression of 
spies, German agents, pro-boches, etc., etc. 

Of course, there is some foundation for their fears. If 
you take up a map of Brittany, you will see that the coast 
line is greatly indented. There are high, rocky cliffs and 
innumerable caves which might easily shelter whole car- 
goes of enemy supplies. Remote little beaches might 
serve as landing places, and there are all sorts of rumors 
about tanks of gasoline, barrels of butter, piles of fresh 
vegetables and meat being hidden in these natural ware- 
houses, and as to how the submarines come in, signalled 
from shore by their spies, telling them when and where 
to land. 

Undoubtedly there are bases for supplies along the 
coast. It is wild and uninhabited for miles, the little 
fishing villages, sheltering along the shore-line in rocky 
bays and inlets, are practically denuded of able-bodied 
men; only women, children and old folk living in these 
little stone cottages facing the rough Atlantic, and who 
are they to dare to withstand armed Germans? 

All the waters along the coast are infested with the 
German U-boats. Last week the little English packet, 
running between Saint-Malo and Southampton, was tor- 
pedoed ten miles off the Isle of Wight. Only the captain 
and four others, who happened to be on deck, were saved 
by clinging to wreckage. All the crew, the two steward- 
esses, and the cabin boys were drowned before they could 
reach the deck. We knew them well, these courageous 
people who have so often made the journey since the war 



Prisoners and Ambulances 119 

began, and now they are lying under these green waters, 
martyrs to their duty. 

The submarines take weekly toll, but no names are 
mentioned in the papers, only the total amount of tonnage 
lost each week. So, added to the horror of the war, is 
the horror of the sea. In many a little home along the 
coast, the wife and mother waits for the man who will 
never return. 

At Paimpel, seventy-five miles away, sixty-six out of 
the seventy anti-bellum fishing smacks have been sunk. 
What it means to the poor fishing folk can be better 
imagined than described. Four or five families would 
often put the savings of a generation into a fishing boat, 
and the whole population of many villages lived entirely 
off the product of the sea. Naturally, their poverty is 
great, and they don't know where to look for help. As 
one sits on the rocks, looking at the beautiful turquoise 
ocean with the great space of radiant blue above, and the 
coast-line stretching away for miles into the hazy distance, 
it is hard to realize that beneath these sunny waters, per- 
haps a mile or two away, lurks that hideous instrument 
of death, the German submarine. 

One cannot deny their presence — they make themselves 
too often conspicuous. Ten days ago, a British transport 
was torpedoed and went down off Jersey, about fifty miles 
from here. Every once in a while a French destroyer 
comes into Saint-Malo harbor, or a military balloon mounts 
guard in the translucent air. 

A story was told recently which bears out these facts, 



1 20 War Days in Brittany 

but I don't believe, myself, that it is possible. During the 
high spring tides we had this month of March, the sea 
went out on the ebb to a great distance, leaving exposed 
many rocky islets and long sandy beaches. One small 
island has deep water on one side, where a U-boat could 
be safely hidden, and a sandy stretch to the landward side 
forms an ideal harbor. 

The story runs that a few days ago two well-dressed 
men walked into a little country inn, in a small village, 
ordered a lunch of young vegetables, chicken, cigars and 
liqueurs. Smiling pleasantly over their meal, before 
leaving, they called for paper and ink. 

They paid for their food in French money, and left a 
note for the Sous-Prefet of Saint-Malo. Imagine that 
official's chagrin, on opening it, to find the following: 

"Monsieur le Sous-Prefet — We had an excellent lunch 
and wish to state that we perceive you still eat well in 

France. 

"Captain Fritz. 
"Lieut. Johann. 
"U-boat off Brittany, March, 1918." 



TO A POILU 



TO A POILU 



Hail to you, Poilu! Before the world you stand 

Clad in the glory of your deathless fame; 
War had no terrors for the dauntless band 

That held the line 'gainst bombs, and shells, and flame. 

Through tragic months of winter cold and rain, 
When snow and water filled the narrow trench, 

Steadfast and patient you did bear the strain; 
Oh! little soldier of the war-tried French. 

From peasant hut, from wealthy, well-stocked farm, 
From mountain village, or town's crowded mart, 

When first the Toscin shrilled its fierce alarm, 
Gladly you rushed to play your noble part. 

Oh, Sons of France! How quickly you forgot 

The easy comfort of your tranquil life; 
When high and low have shared a common lot 

There is no room for friction or for strife. 

Beneath the August sun, two years ago, 

Life fiercely throbbed and beat in your young frame; 
You battled, struggled, panted in the glow 

Of love for France, and for her precious fame. 

'Midst rye and wheat of cultivated fields, 

Where now the harvest waits the reapers' glaive, 

Only a wooden cross and rain-stained kepi shields 
You — unknown hero in your nameless grave. 

[123] 



1 24 War Days in Brittany 

Afar, perhaps, some woman mourns your end, 
Wondering, in sorrow, where your body lies; 

She cannot come with loving hands to tend 
Your humble tomb beneath the Argonne skies. 

No flowers shall fade upon your lowly mound, 
So soon by storm and time effaced to be; 

But where you died, 'tis France's holy ground, 
An altar and a pledge to Victory. 

Hail to you, Poilu! In all the years to come, 
You'll represent the Fighting Soul of France; 

Verdun, the Meuse, the Champagne and the Somme, 
Are clarion notes which thrill, inspire, entrance. 

That rolling down the misty vales of Time 
Proclaim your strength, your courage, fine and true, 

Raising you to the ranks of men sublime; 
The World salutes you! Hail to you, Poilu! 

Dinard, 1918. 



OUR WAR WORK 




c 



Since the following article, "Our War Work," was 
written, Mr. Deming Jarves has been decorated by 
the French government with the cross of the Chev- 
alier de la Legion d'Honneur. 



The Jarves Family were represented in the Great 
War by Mrs. Jarves' brother, Capt. John P. Jackson, 
U. S. N., commanding American transports bringing 
soldiers to France, and the following great-nephews 
of Mr. Jarves: 

Captain Francesco Marigliano, Duke Delmonte of 
the Cavalliera di Udine, Italian Army, received two of 
the highest awards for valor in the Battle of the 
Piave. 

Count Pio Marigliano (his brother), First Lieuten- 
ant in the Italian Navy, killed in the blowing up of 
the battleship Leonardo di Vinci. 

Captain Howard Kerr, 11th Hussars, British 
Army, served through the War on the British Front 
in France and Belgium. 

Captain Graham Lindley of the U. S. Army. 

Eric and John Higginson (brothers), petty officers 
in the U. S. Navy, served on destroyers on the Irish 
Coast. 

Charles Higginson (youngest brother of above), 
took an intensive course at Annapolis, and then re- 
ceived his commission from the U. S. Navy as an 
Ensign, on a Cruiser doing convoy work. 



Mr. Jarves' father and two uncles took part in the 
War of 1812, and his grandfather in the Revolutionary 
War. 






I 






OUR WAR WORK 

(From the Paris Edition of the New York Herald 
of May 12, 1917) 

When the wounded from the Marne began pouring into 
Brittany, there were no adequate hospitals to receive and 
care for the thousands of gravely injured men. Everyone 
was called upon to give money, supplies, beds and bedding, 
lamps and heating apparatus, surgical instruments, ban- 
dages, dressings, hospital garments, all the paraphernalia 
of great military hospitals, to be installed immediately. 
The confusion was great, the goodwill endless, but the 
material lacking. 

Upon these tragic circumstances everyone, from peasant 
to American pleasure-seeker, gave of their best. 

Twelve large hospitals were opened in Dinard alone; 
in the two large casinos, in the hotels, and in private 
villas in the neighborhood of Dinard. 

From St. Malo, St. Servan, Parame, St. Briac, St. 
Lunaire, all within walking distance of Dinard, came 
urgent calls for help. 

From remoter convents, where everything had to be 
provided, came even greater demands. 

Mr. and Mrs. Deming Jarves, seeing the necessity for 
immediate help, gave very largely personally, and wrote 
to relatives and friends in America for assistance. How 
generous the response was, is indicated in the following 
list of friends who responded at once : 

[127] 



128 War Days in Brittany 

Cases were sent by : 

The Red Cross Society of Washington. 

Philadelphia Emergency Aid Society. 

British War Relief Association, New York. 

Vacation War Relief Association, New York. 

Junior War Relief Association, New York. 

Surgical Dressing Committee, Philadelphia. 

Princeton Chapter of the American Red Cross. 

Detroit Drug Company. 

Princess Louis of Battenberg. 

Mme. Jusserand (wife of the French Ambassador in Washington). 

Mme. Ekengren (wife of the Swedish Minister in Washington). 

Lady Swettenham. 

Lady Wolseley, of Wolseley. 

Miss Martha Codman, Washington. 

Mrs. Morehead, Washington. 

Mrs. McGowan, Washington. 

Miss May Moulton, New York. 

Major Louis L. Seaman (President British War Relief Association 

New York). 
Mrs. C. Wolcott Henry, Philadelphia. 
Mrs. Freeman, Wissaluckon Heights. 
Mrs. Norman, Newport. 
Mrs. Charles Pike, Chicago. 
Mr. W. M. Kozmenski, Chicago. 
Mrs. G. H. Rowland, New York. 
Mrs. Russell A. Alger, Detroit. 

Money was sent by : 

Mr. George A. Russel, Detroit, President People's State Bank, 

Michigan. 
Mr. M. F. Barbour, Detroit, President Michigan Stove Company. 

Mr. J. T. McMillan, Detroit, President Detroit Steamship Com- 
pany. 

Mr. H. H. Campbell, Detroit. 

Mr. G. E. Lawson, Detroit, Vice-President People's State Bank. 

Mr. Angus Smith, Detroit. 

Mr. J. Dwyer, Detroit, President Detroit Stove Co. 



Our War Work 129 

Mr. H. B. Ledyard, Detroit, President Michigan Central Railway. 

Mr. H. Russel, Detroit, Vice-President Michigan Central Railway. 

Mr. R. A. Alger, Detroit, Vice-President Packard Motor Car Co. 

Mr. C. H. Freer, Detroit. 

Mr. J. C. Hutchings, Detroit, Detroit United Railway. 

Mr. Howie Muir, Detroit. 

Mr. F. J. Hecker, Detroit. 

Mrs. R. S. Mason, Detroit. 

Mrs. Butler, Detroit. 

Mr. Truman H. Newberry, Detroit, former Secretary of the United 
States Navy. 

Mr. J. S. Alexander, New York, President National Bank of Com- 
merce. 

Mr. Myron T. Herrick, New York, former Ambassador to France. 

Mrs. Helen A. Noyes, St. Paul. 

Mrs. Coudert, Washington. 

Mrs. Thompson, Washington. 

Mrs. Julien-James, Washington. 

Mrs. C. Howe Johnson, Washington. 

Mrs. Lorthorpe Bradley, Washington. 

Mr. Gibson Farnstock, Washington. 

Mr. Hudnut, New York. 

Mr. John Aspergren, New York. 

Mrs. Sheffield Phelps, New York. 

Mrs. Moses Taylor Pyne, New York. 

Mrs. John Innes Kane, New York. 

Mrs. Edward Walker, Detroit. 

Mrs. J. J. White, Atlantic City. 

Mrs. Barker Gummere, Washington. 

Mme. Ekengren and Miss Helen Patten sent a sum of 
money, being the proceeds of a concert arranged by them. 

Villa Transformed Into Warehouse 

Mr. Jarves converted two salons of his Villa Val Fleuri 
into receiving and storing rooms, engaged a secretary and 
two women for the packing and re-sorting of supplies, and 
used the garage for opening and receiving the cases. It 



130 War Days in Brittany 

is estimated that over 97,000 articles have been thus dis- 
tributed, not to mention tobacco, candies, fruit, cocoa, 
chocolate, Liebig's Extract, Valentine's Essence, Benger's 
Food, tetanus serum, etc. 

To give a more complete idea of the extent of the work 
done, it is only necessary to say that 6,393 beds have been 
installed in the various buildings converted into hospitals. 

Besides these immediate demands for medical and sur- 
gical supplies, came the call of the homeless, the refugees, 
prisoners in Germany (Dinard men) . From all sides, these 
appeals poured in from the unfortunate victims of the war. 

Thousands of Belgians sought refuge in Brittany. 
Baronne Raymond de Saint-Gilles, at Le Fretay, has over 
4,000 dependent on her for assistance, and Abbe Destroop- 
ers at Avranches, and Mile. Powis de Tenbossche at 
Rennes, both of whom have over 3,000 Belgians on their 
refuge lists, all have been supplied with great quantities of 
garments. 

The convents were especially deserving of assistance; 
many throughout Brittany were of the poorest description. 
These religious women found themselves face to face with, 
for them, unparalleled conditions, and were occupied in 
attending Arabs, Senagalais, Turcos, Bretons, Chasseurs 
Alpins and Paris "gamins." 

The accommodations were poor enough and the medical 
and surgical supplies utterly inadequate, for they simply 
did not exist. 

To them, Mr. Jarves was able to give a large quantity of 
necessary articles, including a hot-air apparatus, a full set 



Our War Work 131 

of surgical instruments, clothing, medicines, comforts and 
money. The supplies from America have been divided 
with the conscientious desire to see American generosity 
help as far as could be. 

97,610 Articles Distributed 
The following list is an estimate of the numbers and kind 
of articles distributed : 

Compresses of all kinds 37,000 

Bandages of all kinds 22,000 

Pairs of socks 4,290 

Shirts 2,095 

Articles of children's clothing .... 4,000 

Articles of men's and women's clothing . . 2,500 

Pyjamas 375 

Miscellaneous articles 24,500 

Cotton wool (pounds) . . . . • 850 

Total . . 97,610 

About six hundred surgical instruments have been dis- 
tributed to various hospitals in Brittany. 

Gifts of money have been distributed as follows: 

November, 1914 — Five thousand francs to the Oeuvre 
des Beiges, Dinard. 

November, 1914 — Ten thousand francs to M. Crolard 
(Mayor of Dinard) for the poor of Dinard and the French 
and Belgian refugees. 

The balance was spent in England in purchasing pro- 
visions, surgical instruments and dressings for the hos- 
pitals. 

In December, 1916, Mr. Deming Jarves gave to the 
town of Dinard the sum of 5,800 fr., to form a fund called 



132 War Days in Brittany 

the "Deming Jarves Fund" (which was increased later to 
10,000fr.), which the mayor is distributing to the poor, 
residing permanently in Dinard and having need of im- 
mediate assistance. 

All automobile expenses, transport, storage, cartage, 
distribution and Custom House expenses have been paid 
by Mr. Deming Jarves. These expenses are estimated at 
not less than 1 5,000 fr. 

The work still continues, although for the last year, 

through the courtesy of the American Relief Clearing 

House, the cases are sent through free of charge from 

Bordeaux. 

France's Thanks 

On July 8, 1915, Mr. and Mrs. Deming Jarves were noti- 
fied by M. Julliard, the Prefet of Ille-et-Vilaine, that he 
would call on them on July 11, at three o'clock, accom- 
panied by M. Lacouloumere, Sous-Prefet of Redon; M. 
Revilliot, Sous-Prefet of Saint-Malo; General Grillot, 
commanding the district; M. Crolard, Mayor of Dinard, 
"en grande tenue," to thank them in the name of France 
for their generous help in the great crisis of this war. 







i 3 
Er S 






_ oj 
'3 S 
O 



■— 



a 
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3 



AMERICANS IN BRITTANY 



AMERICANS IN BRITTANY 



When the Yankees return home after the great war is 
over, those who have been quartered in Brittany will carry- 
back a vivid impression of long stretches of green forests 
and fields, of tumbling green waters, of gray-and-white 
skies with dashes of tender blue, of glinting sunshine lying 
warm on blue slate roofs, of low stone villages huddled 
about quaint church-towers, and of granite buildings of 
unknown antiquity — and some may carry home recollec- 
tions of yellow- or auburn-haired girls, rosy-cheeked, 
clad in heavy black peasant costumes and white muslin 
"coiffes." 

It rains often in this west country, skies hang low, and 
there is much hazy atmosphere and blue-wrapped dis- 
tances, but the temperature is so mild, roses bloom all 
winter, mimosa spread their golden sprays over southern 
walls. The hedgerows and uplands are aglow early in 
January with primroses and gorse, all shades of golden 
yellows, cutting sharp against green backgrounds and 
vapory skies. 

The air is mild and damp, and it is probably due to this 
purity of atmosphere, that the Breton is as hardy and as 
vigorous as he is, for their cottages, with the dirt floors, 
walled-in beds, and lack of cleanliness, are about as sani- 
tary as in the days of Anne of Brittany. 

Since 1914 these good people have been called upon to 
provide hospitality for all kinds of foreigners; strangers 

[135] 



136 War Days in Brittany 

who, in ordinary life, had never even heard of this part of 
the world, and who probably never had any desire to see 
it — but Kaiser Wilhelm arranged otherwise, and they 
poured in in their thousands. Somehow or other, food 
and lodging were found for them, and they became tre- 
mendously at home. Some, much too much so! 

First came the Belgians, poor, driven, dazed creatures, 
carrying all sorts of parcels and bundles, footsore, limping, 
weary ; fleeing before that first dreadful on-rush of 
Germans in August, 1914. Everyone worked to get them 
food, clothing and lodging; but, scattered all over the 
province, they were wretchedly unhappy crowds, knowing 
no language but Flemish or Walloon, isolated and lost in 
France, and with their families in Belgium. English and 
Americans took charge of them, and, by tireless generosity 
and exertion, provided them with the necessities of life. 

I know of one Belgian hospital at St. Lunaire, which, for 
the last four-and-a-half years, has been dependent on five 
English girls, who, through all sorts of trouble, complica- 
tions and work have kept it going — and going competently 
and well. 

From England they obtained the necessary surgical and 
hospital supplies, but often and often they had to dip deep 
into their own pockets — it was a flimsy summer hotel, in 
no way suited to a hospital service; but, nothing daunted, 
they stuck at it courageously, giving time, health, and 
wealth, never relaxing their efforts, or becoming dis- 
couraged — brave, unselfish, untiring volunteers ! 

Many a Belgian, exiled, wounded, homesick, has a 



Americans in Brittany 137 

special little shrine in his heart for the Misses de Mont- 
morency and Miss Amscott. 

After the Belgian invasion, came the French wounded. 
I would not dare say how many thousands have passed 
through the Dinard hospitals, where they were nursed by 
French, English, Belgian and American Red Cross ladies. 
For years, the streets were full of bandaged, limping 
creatures, happy to recuperate in our soft climate. While 
these were in our town, we were suddenly inundated by 
hordes of Russians; strong, vigorous young men, with a 
charming disregard for all discipline, and an ardent de- 
termination to do exactly as they chose. When remon- 
strated with, they just laughed and said: "Kaput czar, 
kaput Russia — kaput tout," and that is all there was to 
it. They weren't going to fight any more, or obey any- 
one. They traveled when it pleased them, getting on or 
off of trains, without inquiring about their destination, 
carefully ignoring all formalities, such as tickets, time, or 
overcrowding, and behaved themselves generally as if law 
and order had disappeared with the czar. Great, strap- 
ping chaps they were, too; in clean, well-brushed uniforms 
and fine boots, apparently not concerning themselves in 
the least as to the war or the future, sauntering about our 
streets, amusing themselves as they saw fit, and finally be- 
coming so unbearable that a few were hauled up and shot 
by the authorities at St. Malo, and the rest sent off some- 
where, at the unanimous request of St. Malo and Dinard. 

In ordinary times, these Belgians and Russians would 
never have heard of Dinard, and been perfectly satisfied 



138 War Days in Brittany 

not to, but then so would we have been, had William the 
Kaiser permitted them to remain at home. 

Last March, the third invasion took place — twelve 
hundred boys and girls from Nancy, aged four to twelve 
years. They were quartered at the Royal Hospital and 
at St. Lunaire, and the American Red Cross sent down 
nurses and doctors to look after them. They needed 
everything — clothing, boots, medical attendance and hy- 
giene — being in a shocking condition, having hidden in 
cellars for months during the bombardment of Nancy; 
their faces were yellow and pinched, their bodies un- 
healthy and sickly, their morale at its lowest ebb. 

Mr. Thomas Ewing Moore, representative of the 
American Red Cross, formed a committee of ladies, with 
the Marquise de Sigy as president, who tells me they dis- 
tributed, in four months, over ten thousand garments, 
shoes, boots, hats, underwear, etc. 

After the Nancy children had been comfortably in- 
stalled and attended to, French refugees from the Aisne 
began to pour in, fleeing before the German offensive of 
last March. Again the American Red Cross came to their 
relief, and over $100,000.00 was spent on them — clothing, 
food, medicines, coal were purchased, homes found, furni- 
ture bought — a tremendous work all over Brittany. 

All these invasions gave a great deal to do, no one could 
afford to be idle, and I must say the call was nobly re- 
sponded to. A branch of the Surgical Dressings Service 
(American Red Cross) was installed by Mrs. Austin, an 
"ouvroir" opened, which did splendid work from October, 



Americans in Brittany 139 

1917, to September, 1918. 300,000 dressings were sent to 
Paris; English, French, Belgian and American ladies 
worked all day and every day; and, thanks to President 
Mrs. John C. Howard's tact, it proved to be a most har- 
monious circle. From accounts one hears on all sides of 
other "ouvroirs," harmony is not precisely their most con- 
spicuous feature. 

Elmer Stetson Harden is the one American volunteer 
serving in our Brittany regiments. He won the highest 
praise for his fine courage under fire, which earned him the 
Croix de Guerre. His officers and companions consider it 
rather splendid of him, a rich and independent American, 
to volunteer as a simple "poilu," and to refuse all pro- 
motion, satisfied to remain with them through dangers and 
discomforts, sharing their everyday life out of love for 
France. It is the more praiseworthy, as he is beyond the 
age limit; Medford, Mass., may well be proud of this son 
of hers. He has been wounded twice. After months of 
suffering in a Dinard hospital, is now cheery and well. I 
met him yesterday at a luncheon and was glad to see such 
a wholesome American in horizon-blue. 

After all these different invasions — Belgian, French, 
wounded, children — you can imagine we looked with some 
misgiving on a Yankee one. The American Y. M. C. A. 
opened in August, 1,200 men in Dinard, 2,000 across 
the bay at St. Malo and Parame; but now, after three 
months, I can frankly say they are welcome everywhere. 

Well-behaved, well-mannered, cheery, healthy, young, 
they come like a fresh breeze from the sparkling 



140 War Days in Brittany 

Atlantic, bringing hope, courage and enthusiasm in their 
wake. 

It is so delightful for us war-weary Dinardais to come in 
contact with anything so vital, and vigorous, that we open 
our doors to them, bidding them welcome, with patriotic 
fervor. 

All the Anglo-American colony, as well as the French 
aristocracy at Dinard, have entertained them, either at 
luncheon or teas, and the Y. M. C. A. has done its utmost 
to make their short vacation a happy and memorable one. 
Trips to Mont St. Michel, Dinan and Combourg are in- 
cluded in their week's stay. Vaudeville performances, 
dances, concerts, everything to make them feel at home 
and "comfy." My French friends are much impressed by 
their intelligence and manliness. My friend, the Countess 
de Durfort, receives 200 every Friday at her feudal Castle 
of Combourg, and often tells me what pleasure it gives her 
to entertain "ces braves Americains." 

La Baronne de Charette, nee Miss Antoinette Polk, of 
Tennessee, great-niece of President Polk, and widow of 
General de Charette, the famous leader of the Papal 
Zouaves in the war of 1870, has opened her old Chateau 
every Wednesday to 200 Yankees. 

Her Brittany home lies in a hollow surrounded by gray- 
bearded oaks, near the river Ranee. It is full of histori- 
cal souvenirs of all kinds. Royalty has spent many happy 
days beneath its high-peeked roof; parties and festivities 
of all sorts taking place here. 

Wednesdays have always been the reception days of the 



Americans in Brittany 141 

General and Mme. de Charette, since 1883. Notabilities 
who came to Brittany, made it a pleasure as well as a duty 
to pay their respects to the venerable hero and his charm- 
ing American wife; they enjoyed a truly southern hos- 
pitality, inspected the various historical souvenirs, the 
flags, the banners, the presentation swords (gifts of de- 
voted admirers all over France), walked in the beautiful 
park, feasted on good wine and good cheer, and departed 
with a pleasant recollection of all the charms of this old- 
world manor, given to the famous general by his ardent 
followers, the Papal Zouaves. 

Madame de Charette wanted to offer the same hospitality 
to her American compatriots as was offered to European 
royalty and distinguished foreigners. So every Wednes- 
day her doors are opened to 200 Yanks. 

They find an excellent "gouter," a charming hostess, 
surrounded by the ladies of the nobility from the neighbor- 
hood, who put themselves out to amuse the "doughboys." 

Music, singing, dancing, fill in the hours from 3 to 8, 
but what they seem to like the most is to sit in the half- 
light in a circle, before the great granite chimney-place, 
the logs burning and snapping, casting weird shadows over 
these fighters from afar, on the heavy oak beams of the 
"Salle des Zouaves," flitting here and there over the dark 
oak furniture, catching a sheen of light from steel helmets, 
of a bit of color from some pendant war flag. They listen 
to the old southern tales and the history of the general's 
battles, or tell, themselves, of what they have seen or done 
in this war of wars. 



142 War Days in Brittany 

Among the French and Italian flags is one — a poor, 
tattered, faded silk American one — cherished reverently 
by the family; for, in 1862, Mme. de Charette (then Miss 
Polk) rode on horseback by a black night to warn General 
Forrest of the approach of the Union troops. After the 
victory, General Forrest presented this trophy to the 
young girl, saying: "My child, thanks to you, we have 
won the battle; to you, therefore, I give the flag." 

Mme. de Charette's only son, the Marquis de Charette, 
was wounded April 16, 1917, being the only man in his 
tank to escape alive; he has fighting blood in his veins, for, 
besides his father's, his ancestors, General de Charette 
fought at Yorktown with General Lafayette — as well as 
General Leonidas Polk of the Southern army. We con- 
sider it a privilege for our Yankee boys to see such an in- 
terior; our own entertainments for them in our modern 
villas at Dinard being much inferior in interest and 
attractions, but it is a great pleasure to receive them. 

Every Saturday a certain number — 20 to 25 — come to 
our home, "Val Fleuri," and we give them American 
pumpkin-pie, cornbread, potato-chips, cakes, chocolate, 
etc. Pretty girls dance with them, we sing war songs, and 
old-fashioned ones, too, and although each Saturday 
brings a new set, my husband and I are glad to be able to 
offer to these "boys from God's country" an afternoon in 
our American home. 

October, 1918. 



VICTORIOUS BELLS OF FRANCE 







#1 

Q_ TnaiyntenianJ— 
0* qg[ tnAMcmA dc6 covJicmm.es 

- 3~-./ ' k/ru/T ecu \ que nou-6 oik n^oruS 

^auMl|ooa«""ceuA cj-lu. ue reuiervc)ronL f^ud 






VICTORIOUS BELLS OF 
FRANCE 

It is the eleventh of November, a date future generations 
will look back to as the greatest in modern history; a date 
which marks the end of the most brutal and aggressive 
war. The horrible nightmare is over, and the "superman" 
vanquished, pray God, for all time. 

We who have lived through these long tragic years, who 
have seen with what fortitude and patience the darkest 
hours have been borne, when storm-clouds blackened the 
skies and hope hid her face — we tremble with longing for 
Peace, can scarcely believe it can be true. The hope has 
dwelt so long in our hearts, the realization has seemed so 
impossible. 

All the morning the town was alive with rumors — a 
word, a suggestion, a guess, all light as a zephir, but gain- 
ing stability as they spread — until people crowding in the 
streets with radiant faces and happy eyes, became aware 
of the certitude of Victory as yet unannounced: 

"Is it true the boches are beaten?" 

"Have we the victory?" 

"Foch has signed today." 

"The Kaiser has fled." 

"The Crown Prince is killed." 

A hundred such-like reports were tossed about, nothing 
definite but a happy expectancy on all the grinning faces. 
I met the mayor at 11 o'clock. 

[145] 



146 War Days in Brittany 

"Ah, Ah, Monsieur le Maire, voici la Victoire; What? 
(There is Victory?)" 

"But non, Madame, not yet, it is not official." 

"But at least we can pavoise (beflag)?" 

"Non, non, Madame, pas encore, but — " with a twink- 
ling eye, "you can have your flags ready." 

All along the streets are little groups of people chatter- 
ing excitedly, joined constantly by new-comers; itinerant 
newsmongers, each with his own special brand of rumor. 
At the Place de l'Eglise, a large crowd has gathered, wait- 
ing for the bells, so long silent, now perhaps to ring in a 
new era for humanity. The postmaster, a functionary of 
importance in our little town, is gesticulating and laugh- 
ing with the commandant de place. Peasants, shop- 
keepers, doughboys, Red Cross nurses, Poilus and Belgian 
wounded, priests, children, old and young, are all crowd- 
ing, jostling, each with perfect good humor. 

Flags spring forth on house-fronts, little fluttering lines 
of bunting stretch across from window to window, flowers 
appear in buttonholes, out of church-tower windows lean 
the bell ringers; a little French flag has been hoisted high 
on the tower, the first in four years. 

"Will the great news never come?" 

Presently a loud clattering of sabots ; the schools are out, 
'round the corner they stream at full speed, twenty 
abreast, little chaps from eight to twelve, their pink faces 
aglow, their capes streaming in the wind, a tricolor grasped 
in red fists, bobbing in front line. Dear little chaps, each 
has lost someone — a brother or a father — one's eyes fill 



* ( COMPTOIR NATIONAL 

D'ESCOMPTE DE PARIS 



EMPRUNT 
NATIONAL 

1918 







GL'STE UKOUK ■ 



OM/^CAAAH^v 



ONSOUSCRIT SANS FRAIS AU SIEGE SOCIAL. 14-. RUE BERGERE.A PARIS 
ET OANS TOUTES LES AGENCES OU BUREAUX DE QUARTIER. 



Iwamun Jou»» CHARLES .P.... 



Victorious Bells of France 147 

with tears of relief of what they have escaped, these little 
citizens of the future, they at least can grow to the fulness 
of manhood without a dreadful menace hanging over 
them. The world is safe for them. 

The clock points to 3. Suddenly a great peal of bells 
rings out on the sunny November air; louder and louder 
the sound reverberates over the autumn trees and far out 
to sea, loud and clear and joyous, carrying the glorious 
news over land and water to the hearts of the waiting 
people. 

Ah! ring, bells of France! Ring out over all this beautiful 
martyred land, over towns and villages, over country, 
river, sea. Messengers of God, bringing joy and hope. 
Ring in long, swelling notes, full of harmony and Peace. 
Bring to all who listen the certitude of victory; the 
knowledge that the vast sacrifices have not been in 
vain; that Peace soon will spread her healing breath 
over this sore- tried nation. As the carillons ring, a 
shout bursts out, people weep, laugh, embrace each 
other. They sob and cheer in the same breath, all hearts 
united in one over-whelming wave of gratitude and 
thanksgiving. 

Then a slow booming from the cannon at Saint- 
Malo sounds across the water — only a few days ago 
what fears it would have caused — but today, thrice 
blessed guns! 

The doughboys raise a terrific shouting; some whistle, 
shriek, cat-call; tin pans are banged as cymbals; a pro- 
cession is formed, French and Belgians with their flags in 



148 War Days in Brittany 

front, singing the " Marseillaise," then the Yanks, cheering 
and dancing arm in arm, thirty abreast, zigzaging down 
the boulevard. I ran out with some thirty small national 
flags, and in a second they were whipped out of my 
arms and went careering away over the heads of the 
shouting men. 

The procession swept on, catching up bystanders; 
infirmieres had flags thrust at them,'and joined the ranks, 
their white veils and dresses gleaming ahead; some of 
the Americans picked up the tiny children, carrying them 
shoulder high, the kiddies clutching them in a strangle- 
hold, their necks craning to see their mothers and sisters 
running along the sidewalk near them. 

The crowd swings on to visit the hospitals, to salute 
their wounded comrades, to the mairie, to the com- 
mandant de place, singing "Over There," the "Star- 
Spangled Banner," the "Marseillaise," and "la Braban- 
conne." There was no bed that day for the wounded, 
operation or no operation they hung out of the windows 
and balconies, to the horror of their nurses, waving 
handkerchiefs, towels, pillow-slips, slippers — anything 
that came to hand. One boy, with the Croix de Guerre 
and four other medals, hobbled out on the terrace, waved 
a crutch, sang the first verse of the "Marseillaise," and 
then fainted dead away. Another hung over a balcony 
cheering himself hoarse, when remonstrated with and 
told to remember his operation of two days ago, de- 
clared he didn't care if he had to spend six more 
weeks in bed, he had been wounded five times for his 



Victorious Bells of France 149 

country's good, and now he would have one for his own 
pleasure. 

All the afternoon, little bands marched up and down, 
a group of Belgians with an accordion, the player with 
an arm in a sling clutching it somehow, playing the 
"Brabanconne." Yanks decked out in paper caps and 
tricolor ribbons, arm in arm with singing girls, sky-larking 
about the town. All the week, festivities have been in 
full swing, in the cafes, the hotels, the American Y. M.C. A. 
— entertainments, flags, cheering, songs, music, games — 
the world is alive again, and fear, death, horror banished. 

So it is all over France. Paris is delirious with joy. 
I quote from a letter from a French officer: 

' 'The enthusiasm is indescribable ! Sammies, Tommies, 
Poilus, Midinettes, dance the farandele in the streets, 
singing. More serious people content themselves with 
round dances on the sidewalks; the girls have their 
hair tied with tricolor ribbons, the men wear colored paper 
caps. Actresses are singing on the street corners, waving 
flags. Add to this the firing of cannon and bombs as 
if we were back in the evil days of avions last spring. 
Your compatriots, colder and more phlegmatic, content 
themselves with firing their revolvers in the air. I hope 
they withdrew the bullets. In every street are corteges 
with flags, drums, trumpets. 'Marseillaise' sang, shouted, 
whistled. Some drag the German cannons surmounted 
by poilus, from the Place de la Concorde; on all sides 
a sea of heads; impossible to cross the Avenue de la 
Opera, but every one is 'bon-enfant,' and there have 
been no fights. 

"On the boulevards are great 'Transparents' with Foch, 
Wilson and Clemenceau's portraits. The crowd stands 



150 War Days in Brittany 

all day and all night acclaiming them. Clemenceau 
himself ventured out on the boulevards, and only 
escaped suffocation from his too ardent admirers, by 
rushing into the Grand Hotel and having the partes 
cocker es closed." 

As soon as the news of the signing of the armistice 
was known in official circles yesterday morning, the 
Paris Municipal Council sent out, to be posted all over 
the city, a stirring appeal to the population to celebrate 
the greatest victory ever won. The poster read as 
follows : 

"Inhabitants of Paris" 

"Victory! Triumphant Victory! On all fronts the defeated 
enemy has laid down his arms! Blood will cease to flow! 

"Let Paris throw off the noble reserve for which she has been 
admired by the whole world. 

"Let us give free course to our joy and enthusiasm and hold 
back our tears. 

"To show our infinite gratitude to our magnificent soldiers 
and their incomparable leaders, let us decorate all our houses 
with the French colors and those of our dear allies. 

"Our dead may rest in peace. The sublime sacrifice they have 
made of their lives to the future of the race and the salvation of 
France will not be in vain. 

"For them, as for us 'the day of glory has arrived.' 

"Vive la Republique! 

"Vive la France immortelle! 

"For the Municipal Council, 

"Adrien Mithouard, President. 

"Chatjsse, Chassaigne-Goyon, Adolfhe Cherioux, Henri 
Rouselle, Vice-Presidents; 

"Georges Pointel, Le Corbeiller, Lemarchand, Fiancette, 
Secretaries; 

"Andre Gent, Syndic." 



Victorious Bells of France 151 

News Flashed Throughout France 
While this appeal was being drawn up, the magnificent 
news was flashed by telephone to the Prefects throughout 
France by M. Pams, Minister of the Interior, with the 
following orders: 

"Put out flags immediately. Illuminate all public buildings 
this evening. Have all bells ring out in full peal, and arrange 
with the military authorities to have guns fired, in order that the 
people may know of the signing of the armistice. 

"Dinard, November 11th, 1918:' 



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